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Caravans by Night 

























■> • 




Caravans by Night 

A ROMANCE OF INDIA 


BY 

HARRY HERVEY 


/ 



NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 
1922 



Copyright, 1922, by 
The Century Co. 



< 


PRINTED IN IT. S. A. 

* 0 

FEB 27 1922 t~ 

§)"!. A653944 

*Vi 0 


*' Weave me a tale of Romance 

and Adventure — weave it on the loom of 

Asia; fine threads in the shuttle 

that we who only read may feel the glare 
and glamour of those spicy, sweating 
cities ; may feel the sheer spell of the stars 
and the far spaces at dusk ** 


This Word-Tapestry is Woven for 
MY MOTHER 






CARAVANS BY NIGHT 



CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


CHAPTER I 

THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 

I F you go to the Great Bazaar, which lies west of the 
Old Palace at Indore, you will see him sitting upon a 
cushion in his alcove-like shop, a very magnificent figure 
in flowing robes and gold-edged turban. 

You will find him busy, whether you visit the bazaar 
in mid-morning or in the afternoon; or even after sun- 
set, when lamps embroider the lacework of lanes and 
alleys. 

He is an amiable fellow and he will talk for hours — of 
silks, of jewels (for in those luxuries he deals), or still 
more eloquently of Peshawar, where the blue peaks of 
the Hindu Kush let their lips caress the sky as though 
it were the cheek of some siren. But mention the bar- 
barian with corn-colored hair, or the blue-eyed Punjabi, 
and he will suddenly become as uncommunicative as 
the tongueless fakir who sits before the Anna Chuttra 
and mutely pleads for alms. 

For once, at a time not long past, a mysterious hand 
reached out of nowhere and touched him with two 
equally as mysterious fingers. The barbarian with corn- 
colored hair was one finger, the blue-eyed Punjabi the 

3 


4 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


other. And as swiftly, as inexplicably, as it came, this 
hand withdrew — but not without leaving its mark upon 
the memory of Muhafiz Ali, merchant and loyal servant 
of the Raj. 

For ten years before that day when he felt the first 
impelling wave of intrigue his shop was a haunt for 
tourists and wealthy residents ; for ten years he divided 
his days between salaaming to customers, cooking his 
meals over a cow-dung fire in the rear, and staring across 
the roadway with visible contempt at his despised rival, 
Venekiah, the Brahmin. For all those years Muhafiz 
Ali had hated Venekiah as only a Mussulman can hate 
one who wears the trident of Vishnu painted on his 
forehead. But of late there was another sore that 
festered deep in his heart and hour by hour fed his 
rancor with poison. His one son had dared the horrors 
of an unknown sea (oh, a thousand times larger than 
Back Bay, Bombay, the only water Muhafiz Ali can offer 
by way of comparison) on a troop-ship, and in a strange 
country, where monstrous metal things howled destruc- 
tion and death, the parts of his only-born were buried — 
by Christian hands and in a Christian grave! . . . . 
While Venekiah ’s son, who never stirred from the bazaar 
when the sounds of India responding to the Sirkar ’s 
call rumbled from Kabul down to the Gulf of Manaar, 
lived and walked the streets to talk Swaraj and curse 
the Sirkar and everything bred of the Sirkar! 

Muhafiz Ali came from the North, from Peshawar, and 
the sultry, throbbing heat of Central India dried up 
the life in his veins. He longed for the sight of his 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 


5 


brother-hillmen swaggering through the Bokhara Bazaar, 
at Peshawar; for the smell of camels (perfume to a 
Peshawari) clinging to the chilly dusk. He hoped some 
day to have enough rupees to board one of those terrify- 
ing, though thoroughly convenient, iron demons that 
he frequently saw panting in the railway station and 
ride back to Peshawar, where he would dwell for the rest 
of his earthly days in a house with a garden and an 
azure-necked peacock that strutted and shrilled like an 
angry Rajput. 

Meanwhile, to this end he sat daily in his shop, not 
shrieking at prospective customers with ‘ 4 Please buy my 
nicklass!” like that offspring of the sewer across the 
way, but waiting with the dignity befitting a son of the 
Prophet for those who came to buy. And many came. 
For the fame of his silks (bales from Bokhara frail as 
spun moonlight and the raw sheeny stuff from Samar- 
kand) had spread through the Residency and haunted 
every Memsahib and Ladyship who once allowed herself 
to be enticed into his felt-floored treasure-room. 

But his fame lay not only in silks. In formidable 
chests in the inner room were many necklaces and orna- 
ments — stones precious and semi-precious, and even 
paste. Pie was a lapidary and had once served in the 
establishment of a great jeweller in Delhi. It required 
but a single glance for him to find the matrix in falsely 
beautiful gems, or to appraise any sort of stone from 
diamonds down to chalcedony. Even his Highness the 
Maharajah had heard of his skill in cutting and setting 
jewels, and on two occasions had given him commissions. 


6 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


On this particular day when the mysterious hand 
was very close, and Destiny had placed a chalk-mark 
upon a certain young woman and an officer of the em- 
pire, his hatred for Venekiah swelled to such proportions 
that it included every one ; it quivered against the walls 
of his being, hot as the Indian sun that throughout the 
noonday blazed above the sweltering bazaar. Nor did 
his rage cool when, toward sundown, lilac shadows 
lounged in the street and a hundred-hued swarm jostled 

by. 

The cause of his anger was a Sulaimaneh ring, which 
he wore at all times. Now it is an established fact in 
the social orbit in which Muhafiz Ali revolved that these 
onyx stones will repel devils; therefore, to lose such a 
talisman is to invite misfortune. And Muhafiz Ali had 
lost his Sulaimaneh ring. Furthermore, he suspected 
that his enemy, Venekiah, had stolen it from his finger 
while he slept — although for a Brahmin to touch a Mus- 
sulman is to defile himself. Yet he felt that that heap 
of offal, to speak in the vernacular of the bazaars, would 
suffer contamination to see him at the mercy of devils. 

So he sat and glared, and swore all manner of Moslem 
oaths under his beard, and stopped hating only long 
enough to look toward the kindling west beyond which 
Mecca lay, and prostrate himself on a rug for evening 
prayer. 

As he lifted his eyes they encountered a Sahib with 
corn-colored hair and beard; a Sahib who stood not a 
yard away; who fanned himself with a pith-lielmet, and 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 


7 


looked upon the Mussulman’s religious performances 
with a slightly cynical smile. 

He was handsome, as these white unbelievers go, ob- 
served Muhafiz Ali. The eyes smiled with the assur- 
ance of one who knows a lot and is aware of his wisdom. 
Rather reckless eyes. His skin was tanned and the light 
hair and beard (beard because the word “Van Dyke’' 
is not in Muhafiz Ali’s vocabulary) made it more 
pronounced. White linens completed the picture. 

Muhafiz Ali, his rage dissolving, salaamed. 

“You ’re Muhafiz Ali, the lapidary!” 

The Mussulman detected in his speech a flaw that sug- 
gested he was not an English Sahib; probably Ameri- 
can, or from one of those numerous countries behind the 
sunset, of which he had heard little and knew less. 

“Not only a jeweller, Sahib,” he returned, for he 
spoke English fluently, “but a dealer in silks, rugs — ” 

But the man brushed past him and entered the inner 
room. Muhafiz Ali rose and clattered after him in his 
loose Mohammedan slippers. 

“Do you have jade!” asked the sahib. 

For answer Muhafiz Ali lifted the lid of a brass-bound 
chest and drew forth a tray of necklaces — lustrous, 
creamy-green jade from Mirzapore. 

“Not that kind,” said the sahib, with a gesture (and 
had Muhafiz Ali known the meaning of the word, 
“Gallic” he would have applied it to that quick wave 
of the hand) ; “the clear sort.” 

Whereupon the Mussulman separated a string of gen- 


8 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


nine fei tsui from several necklaces in another tray. 
The stones glowed deep parrot-green. 

“Ah!” This from the white man. “Do you have 
pearls, too — imitation pearls?” 

Muhafiz Ali, somewhat disappointed, produced a 
necklace of his finest false pearls, and the sahib exam- 
ined it with the air of one who knew the difference 
between the nacreous sea-jewel and blown spheres of 
essence d’ Orient. 

“Are you alone?” was his next question. 

“Alone?” echoed Muhafiz Ali. “Alas, 0 worthy 
lordship, my son, my only — ” 

“No, no!” — with that quick gesture and a significant 
look toward the rear door. ‘ ‘ I mean, is there any one in 
the back of the shop?” 

“Nay, Sahib!” 

A germ of suspicion took birth in Muhafiz Ali’s brain. 
What did this foreigner want? 

“You have done work for his Highness the Maharajah, 
I understand,” said the sahib, his eyes glittering like 
black chalcedony. “You reset several necklaces, and 
. . . you made a copy of the Pearl Scarf . . . for, 
well, for state purposes — did n ’t you ? ’ ’ 

Muhafiz Ali answered in the affirmative, still sus- 
picious. The sahib glanced over his shoulder into the 
swiftly gathering dusk. 

“Could you make another copy, using stones like 
this?” 

For some inexplicable reason Muhafiz Ali felt fright- 
ened. The eyes that looked so incisively into his did 


THE EDGE OP THE RIPPLE 


9 


not match the young face. He had seen the same ex- 
pression, only more intense, in the eyes of a mad mollah. 

11 Could you?” pressed the sahib, “or, rather, would 
you? For an extra gift of thirty rupees?” 

Thirty rupees! Muhafiz Ali’s commercial instincts 
led him into planning. . . . But the Pearl Scarf. 
Why did he want a copy ? The germ of suspicion grew 
and multiplied. 

“Nay, Sahib!” he answered, his better judgment 
outbalancing the desire for money. “I do not re- 
member how.” 

“That ’s a pretty lie,” interposed the man, with a 
laugh — a laugh that carried a cold undercurrent and 
made Muhafiz Ali shudder, inwardly. “You know the 
exact number of pearls in the scarf and how they are ar- 
ranged; nine strands; with eighteen pearls in the neck- 
piece-clasp, each having a carat diamond inset in it. 
Come now — I will raise the extra amount to thirty-five 
rupees. ’ ’ 

Thirty-five! The Mussulman’s imagination took 
wings. He saw himself coming into what was to him 
fabulous wealth. 

“The pattern is intricate, Sahib,” he said doubtfully. 

“ I ’ll risk it . 9 ’ Again that laugh. 

Muhafiz Ali felt vaguely nervous. “I will have to 
think it over, Sahib,” he announced. 

What did he want with a copy of the Pearl Scarf? 
That query threaded back and forth across his thoughts. 

“I am in the service of the Raj,” the man confided 
quietly, as though answering the native’s thoughts — 


10 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


confided a shade too darkly. * 1 The Raj wants a copy of 
it — oh, for reasons. . . .” 

Ah ! Muhafiz Ali understood now. The Raj ! This 
handsome sahib was of that invisible army that 
comes and goes so mysteriously from Afghanistan to 
Ceylon. 

4 ‘It is, 0 fountain of wisdom, ’ ’ he declared, with a 
sly wink, “as though I stepped from the dark into the 
light of the sun!” He motioned toward the door, 
through which Venekiah, seated across the way, could 
be seen. “I shall be as mute as the six-armed she-devil 
that yonder louse worships ! ’ ’ 

There was a humorous gleam in the white man ’s eyes. 

‘ ‘ Excellent ! Make your price and come to me at the 
dak bungalow at eight o’clock to-night. Bring a few 
necklaces for effect. I will be on the veranda. My 
name is Leroux Sahib.” 

He tossed several rupees upon one of the chests, and 
turned and went out. 

Muhafiz Ali, reflecting that Allah looked with favor 
upon him, gathered up the coins. And this, after he had 
lost the Sulaimaneh ring! Pah! Ill-fortune, indeed! 
He scoffed. 

He was so pleased that, a few minutes later, when a 
blue-eyed Punjabi inquired the price of a string of 
ferozees, he did not haggle over it but sacrificed the neck- 
lace for exactly what it was worth. 

‘ ‘ Eight o ’clock, ’ ’ he repeated to himself. And his own 
price. He was a loyal servant of the Raj, yes; but that 


THE EDGE OP THE RIPPLE 


11 


did not in any way affect his intention to charge the Raj 
well for his services. 

He looked toward the shop of Venekiah. 

“Brahmin dog!” he hissed in his beard. “Breeder 
of whelps!” 

And he spat eloquently. 

2 

Night wove its shuttle across the sky, beading the 
dusk with stars. The Southern Cross lay mirrored in 
the Sarasvati and the Khan, and in the lake at Suk- 
hnewas; it pulsed above the gardens of Lai Bagh, 
above Sharifa Street and those other narrow highways 
that vein the Holkar’s capital; it peered down inquisi- 
tively into the gloom of the Great Bazaar as Muhafiz Ali, 
having finished a meal of curry and rice, quitted his shop 
and hurried toward the dak bungalow. 

That this Leroux Sahib had commissioned him to copy 
a jewel-pattern of the Maharajah’s regalia no longer 
presaged evil in his mind. Nor did he seek an explan- 
ation. True, it mystified him. But there were some 
things one should not know. And, to him, the secrets of 
the Government were numbered among these. The 
Raj had banished the old order of things, for no more did 
princes sit in golden howdahs upon comparisoned state 
elephants ; nor did they indulge, as of old, in the vener- 
able pastime of pigsticking; they rode in automobiles 

and played a game on horseback with an absurd ball 

Muhafiz Ali had ceased long ago to wonder at the baffling 


12 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


mechanism of the Government, and satisfied himself with 
the assurance that Allah did not intend he should under- 
stand. So Raj meant Riddle. 

When he reached the dak bungalow he found 
Leroux Sahib sitting upon the veranda. The white man 
led him inside. 

“Well?” — this with a gleam of the black eyes. 

“I will do it, 0 cherisher of the poor.” 

“The price?” The Mussulman named an outrageous 
figure — and held his breath. The man inquired : 

“How long will it take?” 

“Seven days; perhaps less.” 

The sahib frowned, tugged at his yellow beard. 

“I must have it in five days.” 

“Impossible, 0 Burra Sahib !” A pause. “Unless — 
of course — ” 

A smile. “Not another rupee do you get, you old 
brigand!” he declared good humoredly. “And five 
days, I say. Settled? Thirty-five rupees extra when it 
is done, half the price in advance.” 

He drew from his pocket a wallet and counted out a 
number of Government of India, notes. 

“Remember, this is to be quiet,” he cautioned. “I 
will call now and then to see how you are coming on.” 

As Muhafiz Ali made his way back to the bazaar, he 
congratulated himself upon getting so easily the price lie 
had set upon the work, and regretted that he had not 
inflated it a little more. However, he was well pleased 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 


13 


with the day’s business. He paused once on the home- 
ward journey to place a four-anna bit in the bowl of an 
emaciated, ash-painted fakir who sat before the alms- 
house, and arrived at his shop in a state of excellent 
spirits. 

He made a light and opened the chest in which he kept 
his necklaces. The instant he saw the top tray he detec- 
ted a flaw. Unlike most merchants, he was very 
careful in the arrangement of his necklaces ; in one tray 
were agates, in another blue sapphires ; thus with all his 
beads. 

And a string of creamy-luster Mirzapore jade lay in 
the tray with the clear, deep-green fei tsui. 

A cold suspicion uncoiled in his brain. He stood 
motionless. This could mean but one thing: some one 
had entered his shop while he was away. He quickly 
counted the necklaces. None were missing. Nor did a 
hasty inventory of the lower tray show that anything 
had been removed. The other chests were under the 
protection of European padlocks. 

Who had entered his shop, and why? Nothing had 

been stolen. The door was locked But the rear! 

Ah ! The court ! Why had he not thought to barricade 
that also against thieves ? But had a thief disturbed the 
beads? A thief would have taken them. After all, was 
not it possible that he had placed the necklaces in 
the wrong tray? Possible, but not probable. No, he 
was certain a hand other than his own had dropped the 
jade from Mirzapore in with the fei tsui stones. 

Yet, he told himself, he had not been robbed. So why 


14 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


be uneasy ? But he could not rid himself of the uncanny 
suspicion that devil-business was afoot. He would feel 
more secure had he not lost the Sulaimaneh ring. 

Upon an impulse he went to the door and peered into 
the street. The shop of Venekiah, the Brahmin, was 
dark. From a nautch-house close by came the muffled 
throbbing of tom-toms — a restless pulse of the night. 
A man in a Punjabi head-dress lounged under a rheumy 
incandescent further along the dim street. 

Muhafiz Ali turned back, gravely troubled. He locked 
the door. 

Of a certainty devil-business was afoot. 

3 

A film of dust wavered over the bazaar and introduced 
a drowsy golden effect into the mid-afternoon atmos- 
phere. Few human beings ventured forth in the glare. 
A half-naked bhisti splashed water over the dusty road- 
way; at one corner a street-juggler sat with a torpid 
python coiled in his lap. 

Muhafiz Ali, absorbed in utter languor, squatted upon 
a brocade of light and shadow woven by the sunlight 
that filtered through the dust-laden leaves of a tree out- 
side his doorway and watched a green-bronze lizard 
drowsing upon the flagstones. The slumberous atmos- 
phere of the bazaar, the mingled odors of fruit, fish and 
cologne, held no portent of the thunderbolt that very 
shortly was to jar Muhafiz Ali out of his peaceful sphere. 

Five days had passed since he visited Leroux Sahib at 
the dak bungalow. The copy of the Pearl Scarf was fin- 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 


15 


ished ; it lay in a chest in the inner room. He had des- 
patched the son of Khurram Lai, the fruit vender, with 
a chit to the sahib telling him this, and the sahib had 
answered that he could call after nightfall. 

Muhafiz Ali felt singularly relieved. For the past few 
days the Mohammedan equivalent of the sword of Damo- 
cles had hung over his head. The white man had called 
several times, and on each occasion the sight of him re- 
assured Muhafiz Ali, but after his departure the native 
invariably relapsed into a state of nervous anticipation. 

Now it was done. To-night the sahib would call and 
he, Muhafiz Ali, would settle back into an untroubled ex- 
istence — many rupees the better. He felt peace 
upon him already. So he sat in the doorway of his 
shop and contemplated the green-bronze lizard, and 
breathed, almost with relish, the mingled odors of fruit 
and fish and cologne. 

Muhafiz Ali had in him the makings of a psychic. 
He anticipated happenings with amazing accuracy. 
Therefore, when a shadow fell upon the roadway in front 
of him and he looked up to see Mohammed Khan, the 
money lender, he felt a pall descend upon him. Moham- 
med Khan, bearded and turbaned to exaggeration, fre- 
quently came to indulge in bazaar gossip. With a word 
of greeting, he sank upon the doorstep beside his brother- 
Mussulman. 

He had startling news this day. Sadar Singh, who 
belonged to the Indian Escort of the Agent, had come to 
pay the fifteen rupees he owed him, and Sadar Singh, 
who never lied, had that very morning heard the Res- 


16 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


idency Surgeon talking with the Commissioner Sahib. 
The substance of their conversation was that there had 
been a robbery at the palace. The vaults had been looted 
of the state treasures. The famous Peacock Turban was 
stolen. . . . And the Pearl Scarf . 

Muhafiz Ali ’s brain did not function normally for some 
time after this announcement. He felt frightened — 
nauseated. The Pearl Scarf stolen. Suppose the copy 
was found in his possession, and the police, who had 
strange ways, connected him with the robbery? The 
house in Peshawar dwindled; he saw the jail looming 
before him. He was innocent, but how could he explain ? 
He remembered vividly the incident of the jade neck- 
lace. Could it be that Venekiah, that mountain of cor- 
ruption, had spied upon him ? .... 0 Allah, Allah, he 
wailed in silence, it was written that his lot should be 
misfortune from the moment he lost the Sulaimaneh 
ring ! 

Inwardly, he writhed while Mohammed Khan talked 
on. He was in no mood for more gossip, but Mohammed 
Khan stayed — stayed until late afternoon when little 
spirals of dust began to rise from the street, when clouds 
materialized out of nowhere and blotted out the sun. 

After Mohammed Khan took his leave, Muhafiz Ali 
tried to reason with himself. The sahib had said the 
scarf was for the Raj, and was not that assurance 
enough? No. And he strove to press behind the veil 
and find an explanation for the affair; but his Kismet 
decreed that he should be a pawn, and he dug at the 
mystery in vain. 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 


17 


A dark sky, threatening rain, hastened the dusk ; and 
when, one by one, lights appeared in the street, like yel- 
low sentinels, Muhafiz Ali uttered a uigh of relief and 
rose and entered the shop. A moment later he heard a 
soft patter and inhaled the fresh, cool smell of rain 
upon dusty air. 

“Please buy my nicklass!” shrilled Venekiah’s voice, 
and he looked over his shoulder to see Memsahib clatter 
by on horseback. 

Behind her walked a man in a Punjabi head-dress, 
swinging along at a leisurely gait despite the rain. 

4 

The usual heavy downpour following a break in the 
monsoon drenched the bazaar. It came with a high 
wind, and doors strained at their locks and windows rat- 
tled as legions of rain rode through the streets. The 
torrent rumbled upon tin roofs and roofs of corrugated 
iron; reduced the dust in alleys to mud; lashed the 
thirsty, sun-scorched trees. 

Muhafiz Ali sat on a cushion in the inner room of his 
shop with a copy of the Koran open in his lap, more 
intent upon the eerie sounds than the book. Frequently 
his eyes left the pages and sought the door as gusts of 
wind smote its panels, and when sudden draughts made 
the lamp-flame flicker and sent the shadows shuddering 
over the walls, a chill dread spread through him. Not 
until that accursed thing of imitations had been taken 
away would he feel safe. Surely the devils were hard 
besetting him for losing the Sulaimaneh ring! 


18 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


The door shook — as though impatient with the lock 
and hinges that held it. Outside, the storm wrung 
wails and groans from the bazaar. Again the door rat- 
tled, furiously. 

Muhafiz Ali set aside the book, rose and crossed the 
room. He unlocked the door. A spray was blown into 
his face. No one was there. Rain poured over the 
street-lamps in gauzy, iridescent ribbons ; it wove 
spumy lace upon the black roadway and trailed, fuming, 
into the gutters. 

He shut the door and locked it. He had taken no 
more than two steps before a pounding brought him to 
a halt. He stood there for a moment, tense ; then turned 
and pressed his lips to the crack of the door. 

‘ ‘ Leroux Sahib?” 

Faintly, from out the chaos of sounds, came — “Yes.” 

He turned the key. The door opened violently and 
slammed behind the drenched figure of the yellow- 
bearded sahib. Water dripped from his helmet; 
streams of moisture trickled down his rain-cape and 
gathered in pools upon the floor. 

“Allah be praised !” Muhafiz Ali murmured fervently. 

Leroux Sahib flung aside his cape, and the native saw 
that he carried a flat package under one arm. The 
white man shook the water from his helmet and mopped 
his face with a khaki handkerchief. 

“Mother of God! What a night!” he exclaimed, 
smiling grimly. Then: “Is it ready?” 

Muhafiz Ali hastily opened one of his chests and re- 
moved several trays. The sahib joined him. His eyes 


THE EDGE OP THE RIPPLE 


19 


shone feverishly as the Mussulman drew forth a thing 
that tinkled musically. Strands of nacreous spheres re- 
flected a soft radiance from the lamp ; luster of cream- 
colored satin. The imitation diamonds that inset the 
clasp burned like star -splinters. 

Leroux Sahib swore under his breath and chuckled; 
swore in a tongue Muhafiz Ali did not understand. 

“What a joke! What a colossal joke! And they 
think it is for them. . . . Bon DieuV’ 

The door rattled ; the lamp-flame rippled threateningly. 

“I shall place it in a tin box, Sahib,” Muhafiz Ali 
said, for the sooner the thing was gone the sooner he 
would feel at ease. “See, a box no larger than the one 
you carry.” 

He moved the lid. Pearls rattled coolly. Mean- 
while, the sahib counted out several banknotes. 

“Count them,” he instructed as Muhafiz Ali handed 
him the tin box, wrapped and tied. 

The Mussulman obeyed. The door shook again. A 
sudden burst of wind almost carried the notes out of his 
hand. The lamp gasped. A slam followed. 

Muhafiz Ali looked up quickly to behold a strange 
tableau — a tableau that for the while suspended all 
thoughts from his brain and drew from his limbs the 
power to move. 

A man had entered — a blue-eyed Punjabi. The face 
was vaguely familiar, and Muhafiz Ali ’s memory groped. 
. . . A string of ferozees. . . . The Punjabi stood 
with his shoulders pressed against the door, his feet 
planted wide apart. His soaked garments clung to his 


20 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


body ; his turban dripped water into his eyes. But that 
did not quench the fire in them. How they burned! 
Blue sapphires! In his hand he held a thing that glit- 
tered like an evil eye. 

Leroux Sahib had swung about. His feet, too, were 
planted well apart, as though he were steadying himself 
for an impact. The muscles of his throat stood out like 
white cords in the shadow of his beard. There was a 
hard gleam in his eyes; more than ever they resembled 
black chalcedony. 

Afterward, Muhafiz Ali never quite remembered how 
it all happened. At the time he was too stupefied to ob- 
serve details. The blue-eyed Punjabi laughed. It was a 
challenge. Leroux Sahib, suddenly smiling, answered 
it; lunged toward the lamp. The ring of shattered 
glass — and darkness wiped out the scene. Followed the 
thudding jar of muscle and bone against yielding flesh; 
swift, staccato breathing. The door was flung wide. 
Muhafiz Ali, crouching in a corner, saw a figure faintly 
silhouetted in the door-frame, an amorphous shadow 
upon the paler darkness of the street. It vanished. 
Another figure lurched out after it, and was swallowed 
by the storm. 

Energy flashed into the Mussulman. He ran to the 
door. The incandescent lamps gleamed through a 
crystal curtain of rain. The street was deserted. For 
a moment he stood there, shivering. Then he shut the 
door; locked it; lay weakly against the panels. When 
he had recovered, he groped his way to where he knew 


THE EDGE OF THE RIPPLE 21 

a lantern hung. He lighted it, and a mellow radiance 
played upon bits of broken glass. 

He rapidly counted the banknotes. Satisfied, he re- 
turned to the door and pressed his ear to the crack. 
Only the slush and drench of rain. He shivered again. 

Whither had they gone, this Leroux Sahib and the 
blue-eyed Punjabi? Their eyes! Black chalcedony and 
blue sapphires! The Punjabi had a pistol. . . . Over 
imitation pearls ! Strange were the ways of these white 
barbarians, stranger still the ways of the Raj. On the 
morrow would the police come and ask him all manner of 
confusing questions? Or had the hurricane spent it- 
self ? Was this the last he would ever see of the yellow- 
haired Sahib or the Punjabi? 

He turned back, looking half abstractedly upon the 
gleaming particles of glass. He shivered for the third 
time. Devil-business ! 

And so the gods, having no further use for Muhafiz 
Ali, merchant and loyal servant of the Raj, left him to 
wonder at the source of these ripples that had touched 
him ; left him to grope behind the drop that had suddenly 
fallen upon this bewildering interlude ; left him to dream 
of the house in Peshawar and the azure-necked peacock 
that strutted and shrilled like an angry Rajput. 


CHAPTER II 


DELHI 

S EVERAL days after Muhafiz Ali delivered the imi- 
tation Pearl Scarf to the sahib in Indore, the 
young woman who was marked of Destiny sat in a first- 
class carriage of the East Indian Railway, her attention 
divided between a green vellum volume propped against 
a gray-clad knee and the sun-blistered scenery that un- 
reeled past the window. 

An elderly gentleman from Devonshire who occupied 
the same carriage found himself wondering why his eyes 
invariably returned to the girl. This particular gentle- 
man was past youthful sentimentalizing and not yet in 
those riper years when age casts regretful glances over 
its shoulder; therefore, being no psychometric, it puz- 
zled him that this girl should compel his gaze. Was 
it the hair, in whose bronzen waves a slantwise ray of 
sunlight ignited little glints of red-gold? Or the white 
throat, full with young maturity ? Suddenly she looked 
up, and he fathomed the secret of magnetism. Brown 
eyes that brought to mind a deep, rich wine held to the 
light — or poplar leaves just before snow. He felt some- 
thing of cathedral-largeness behind those eyes, some- 
thing vital and alive yet intensely spiritual. The warm 
22 


DELHI 


23 


strength of sunlight in great forests; tapers in altar- 
gloom. These things were there. And the gentleman 
from Devonshire thought of a daughter in Britain and 
smiled to himself, and forgot hot, heart-aching India. 

The lights which he had glimpsed in the girl’s eyes 
were the very beacons that had drawn her across leagues 
of water — lights that were first kindled in some voyaging 
ancestor whose frigate dropped anchor off old New Or- 
leans, in the gilded days of Bienville ; that grew dim in 
the tiresome process of heredity, and flamed anew, gen- 
erations later, in this girl who sat in the railway carriage 
— lights that were almost smothered by the snuffers of 
Aristocracy and Tradition. 

For Dana Charteris came of a Louisiana family whose 
name was as old as the state itself, and who lived in a 
great, pillared house^and had black servants and drank 
blacker coffee. Custom and pride and chivalry were the 
goddesses of the family penetralia, and debt maintained 
the vestal-fires. Her father was called “ Colonel ’ 9 for 
the same reason that no less than one third of the gentle- 
men of his plane were given that title. Her mother, who 
carried an air of fragrant and faded aristocracy, read 
Cable and regarded him as some subaltern’s wives in 
India regarded Kipling. And her brother, Alan — 
Dana hardly knew Alan. When his name was spoken 
in the house, it was in a hushed voice. They called him 
“black sheep,” but Dana could never associate dark 
fleece with the slim boy she remembered. Alan ran 
away when little more than fifteen — ran away to sail 
the Seven Seas and to find the end of the rainbow. 


24 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Every few months letters came from him, bearing post- 
marks that were, to her, stamps of glamour. 

In her eyes her brother wore the mantle of Jason. He 
rambled in all manner of weird places in his quest for 
the golden prize. This, while she grew in an atmosphere 
of sweetly-musty traditions! Before she went off to 
boarding-school her days were divided between the 
piano, paddling indolently in warm bayous — sometimes 
alone, sometimes not — and riding a black mare. But in 
the quiet, breathless nights when an army of stars 
thronged the sky, and from down the river came the 
soft crooning of a Creole song, she dreamed of en- 
chanted lands beyond the horizon. 

But the voyaging ancestor and the argonaut-brother 
were only partly responsible for her unrest. There was 
Tante Lucie, down in New Orleans. (Tante Lucie, who 
made one think of star- jasmines and all the romantic 
things that aura the Old South.) She had stories to 
tell, for a lover-husband had taken her adventuring. 
She had seen the Shwe Dagon and looked upon the Taj 
by moonlight. Her lover-husband was only a memory, 
as were the temple and the Tomb ; but she loved to talk 
of them, sitting in her little court where the perfume of 
magnolias swam in the air. 

Dana’s father died just before her eighteenth birth- 
day. In the years following, her mother no longer read 
Cable; she sat and dreamed of her argonaut-son and of 
the “Colonel.” And Dana almost stifled her desire to 
cross the seas. For ominous sounds disturbed the quiet 
of Bayou Latouche; there were bandages to be made 


DELHI 


25 


and books and boxes to be shipped to camps. During 
that period the letters from Alan were infrequent and 
from Mesopotamia. 

But the interlude of khaki passed, and Bayou Latouche 
sank back into its stupor. Again in the starry silences 
Dana listened to the crooning of Creole songs down by 
the river and dreamed of a world beyond the dawns 
and dusks. She was alone then ; her mother went during 
the interlude, and Tante Lucie no longer sat in her 
court and talked of foreign lands. There were no ties; 
except money, as always. To keep up the house she 
taught music. 

Then, one day, she heard from Alan. Burma, this 
time. He held a post with the Inspector of Police at 
Rangoon. He had a bungalow in the cantonment, he 
said, and any number of servants to wait on her, if she 
would sell the house at Bayou Latouche and come to 
him. In a short time he would have a “leave.” They 
could meet in Calcutta and “do” India together. 

India — together! Those words opened the dream- 
portals. After she read the letter she consulted a mirror 
and told herself that she was twenty-three and already 
in demand as a chaperone for the younger set. She went 
into the library and stood before the portraits of her 
father and her mother. She cried. And then, aware 
that the shades of the Charteris family had stern gazes 
fixed upon her, she sent a cablegram to Alan. 

Once aboard the great ship, she felt no regrets; to look 
back upon the great, pillared house was like lifting the 
lid of a rose-jar : it brought the fragrance of things very 


26 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


old and very faded. When she reached Calcutta, a 
young captain met her at Chandpal Ghat. He had a 
note from Alan. It explained that an urgent matter 
had taken him to Indore; he begged her to forgive 
him for not meeting her, but assured her she was in good 
hands. The second day in Calcutta she received a tele- 
gram from him. 

4 'Meet me Delhi Friday/’ it ran. "Take express. 
Plan trip to Khyber.” 

To the Khyber! .... She left Calcutta that same 
day, and now, after a long journey through the prickly- 
hot United Provinces, she was speeding into the North. 
India, with its contrasts of filth and grandeur, had not 
tarnished under the touch of reality; the nearest she 
came to disillusion was in smoky, modern Calcutta. Now 
Tundla Junction lay behind in a shimmering lieat-haze; 
ahead, beyond the roaring, sweating engine, was Delhi — 
Delhi, key to perished dynasties. 

The engine ’s whistle shrieked. It sent a charge of ex- 
citement through her and she looked eagerly out of the 
window. Iron wheels rumbled across a bridge. Another 
shriek of the whistle. Brakes screamed, and the train 
drew up, panting, in the clamor and writhing heat of the 
railway station. 

The gentleman from Devonshire opened the carriage 
door, and Dana, a grip in each hand, her heart flut- 
tering against her breast, smiled at him and stepped 
into a torrid swarm. Her eyes searched the crowd. 
What would he look like? Suppose she did not rec- 
ognize him! Vaguely nervous, yet happy, she al- 


DELHI 


27 


lowed herself to be carried with the human surge. 

* 4 Hello, there!” said a voice in her ear, and she 
turned quickly to look into a clean-shaven tanned face. 
(And the gentleman from Devonshire, who was passing, 
saw the brown eyes acquire a deeper, richer glow.) 

“Alan!” 

He was tall and slim, and the eyes that looked into 

hers were intensely blue, the blue of sapphires 

The same boy, she told herself joyously, only more 
tanned and grown-up! 

“Oh, Alan!” she gasped, as he held her at arm’s- 
length, despite the crowd, then drew her to him and 
kissed her. 

‘ ‘ Great Lord, how you ’ve grown ! ” he exclaimed. 

She remembered saying something about not being a 
little girl always; remembered being led through the 
throng. Then they were in the street. Heat and noise 
and colorful confusion. 

“I Ve reserved rooms at a quiet place beyond the 
Kashmir Gate,” he told her as he helped her into a car- 
riage. “From the terrace outside your room you can 
look upon the battlements and the river.” Then, with 
another smile, “I can’t believe it ’s you! Why, you ’re 
positively beautiful ! Lord, it seems a century, a whole 
century, since I was in Bayou Latouche ! ’ ’ 

He removed his topi as they wheeled off and she saw 
that his hair was shot with gray above the temples. 
They seemed so absurd, those gray hairs. And how his 
eyes lighted when he spoke of Bayou Latouche ! She re- 
alized suddenly, with a tightening of the cords in her 


28 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


throat, that the search for the golden fleece had n’t been 
all pleasant. In his voice, in his face and manner, was a 
thirst for home-talk. She understood how he needed her, 
there in his bungalow in Rangoon. 

“Bayou Latouche is just the same,” she said, placing 
her hand upon his. (She spoke with a faintly slurring 
accent that was unmistakable.) “Except, of course, so 
many have gone. , . . . the war. ...” Pause. “I 
don’t believe you ’ve changed a bit, Alan — you ’re like 
that last picture you had taken before you left. Mother 
— how she adored you ! If you could have seen the way 
she looked at that picture ! Father, too. ’ ’ 

He smiled soberly. She could see her father in cer- 
tain of his features. A sudden fierce joy of posses- 
sion ran through her. He was her’s, this bronzed 
brother ! 

“I ’m glad you ’ve come, Dana.” This solemnly. 

“It’s been rather lonely out here. You know the cli- 
mate has a way, once it gets a hold, of sapping up the 
energy and mummifying a fellow before his time.” 

Her hand closed tighter about his. “And there 
hasn’t been a girl, Alan?” 

Pie smiled. “You ’re the only one, Dana 

I was sorry I wasn’t in Calcutta when you landed, 
but this game of sleuthing has its unexpected twists. 
That ’s why I like it. Nothing very exciting ever really 
happens; it ’s usually humdrum thievery and dacoity. 
A French rogue put in his appearance in Rangoon about 
a month or so ago — an international character ; only 
goes in for big loot. Don’t know where he was before 


DELHI 


29 


he turned up in Rangoon, but he vanished as queerly 
as he ’d come. The day I reached Calcutta I was in the 
station and I recognized him. He ’d peroxided his 
beard and hair ! Heard him ask for a ticket to Indore, 
and I scented trouble in the wind. Of course, I should 
have had him arrested there, but I wanted to see what 
he was up to. I left the note with Bellingrath and 
took the next train.’ ’ 

Adventure ! And he was talking of it in a matter-of- 
fact way! 

“You caught him?” she urged. 

‘ ‘ Has anybody ever caught Chavigny ? No, he slipped 
through the net. And the nerve of him ! He had letters 
to the Maharajah and the Agent! Used the name of 
Leroux. I dressed up in a Punjabi’s garb — wanted to 
snoop around without arousing suspicion. I tracked 
Chavigny to a jeweller’s shop the day I reached Indore 
and overheard him commission the merchant to make an 
imitation copy of the Maharajah Holkar’s Pearl Scarf. 
After that I watched the jeweller, too. He — but I ’m 
boring you.” 

1 1 Boring me!” She laughed. ‘ ‘ My own brother mas- 
querading as a native and shadowing a notorious thief ! 
Go on ! ” 

“Well, I waited, and the expected happened, only on 
a larger scale than I anticipated. The treasury was 
looted — looted! Thousands’ worth of jewels! Why, 
the Pearl Scarf alone is valued at a crore of rupees, which 
is about three million, three hundred thousand in our 
money. And the Peacock Turban, too, cost a fabulous 


30 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


sum! Yet, confound it, Chavigny didn’t go near the 
palace the night of the robbery ! Nor had he taken the 
copy of the Pearl Scarf from the bazaar! The night 
after the theft, I followed him to the shop. Gad, how it 
rained that night! He got the imitation scarf — but I 
lost him. We had a tussle and I snatched the beastly 
imitation, which I ’m keeping as a souvenir of my colos- 
sal blunder in not taking the local police into my con- 
fidence. Departmental jealousy; that ’s the death of 
justice. Chavigny left Indore by automobile or car- 
riage — don’t know which — and boarded a north-bound 
train at Mhow garrison. The station-babu described 
him and said his ticket read to Delhi. And here I am.” 

“You ’ve notified the police that — Chavigny, isn’t 
it ? — is in the city ? ’ ’ 

He smiled. “I didn’t have to. About two hours 
after I arrived, I heard that Kerth — he ’s the Director 
of Central Intelligence’s best man — had got wind of 
Chavigny ’s presence and was trying to ferret him out. 
That relieved me of the responsibility of reporting 
Chavigny.” 

“And you still have the copy of the Pearl Scarf?” 

“Yes.” 

“But is it right to keep it?” This with a flickering 
deep in the brown eyes. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I ’ll not keep it ; only for a while. If I can get 
Chavigny, then — well, there ’s no telling what might hap- 
pen. Too, I ’d like to beat that devilishly clever Kerth. 
You see, Dana, this is a big affair, much bigger than I 
thought at first. The Secret Service is trying to keep 


DELHI 


31 


the lid on it, but of course it *s leaked out. On the same 
night the robbery occurred at Indore, similar robberies 
took place in several other cities. And in every instance 
it was royal loot ! The Gaekwar of Baroda has one of 
the finest collections of diamonds in India, the famous 
‘Star of the Deccan’ among them — and a rug, a rug, 
Dana, ten by six, made of pearls and rubies and dia- 
monds ! Think of it — and stolen ! Scindia of Gwalior, 
the Rajah of Alwar, the Nawab of Bahawalpur, and, oh, 
others, too ! And they all happened on the same night. 
Does it mean there ’s a band of thieves at work, with 
Chavigny at the head ? If so, why, great Scott, it ’s the 
most colossal thing that ’s ever been staged ! But I can ’t 
understand how they intend to get away with the booty. 
The borders and the coast are closed as tight as a 
drum, and they can’t dispose of the jewels in 
India. ’ ’ 

Dana sighed. “To think of all that happening, Alan, 
just as I arrive! Wouldn’t it be marvelous if — ” 

“If what?” he encouraged, smiling. 

“Well, if I were to wake up and find myself in the 
midst of something of that sort; one of the players, not 
just an onlooker.” Another sigh. “I ’d like to see a 
really notorious thief, Alan.” 

He laughed. “You may; for Chavigny ’s in a close 
quarter now. But here we are at the hotel.” 

Th/e carriage drew up and a turbaned porter took 
her bags. The proprietor, an Eurasian, met them under 
the great front arch of the building and conducted them 
to their rooms. 


32 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Oh!” gasped the girl, drawing aside the bamboo 
blinds. 

The casement opened upon a stone terrace flush with 
the city walls, and out of the green and white chaos of 
Shahjehanabad, or modern Delhi, rose the gilded 
bubbles of several domes. Beyond a dark green jungle 
area, the Jumna shone dully. 

“India!” she exclaimed. “Moguls and howdahs and 
mosques!” 

“India! Thugs, snakes and abominable hotels!” 
scoffed her brother from the adjoining room. “Here ’s 
the copy of the Pearl Scarf, if you care to see it. ’ ’ 

As she turned, he stepped through the communicating 
doorway and extended a shallow box. When she lifted 
the cover a little gasp of astonishment left her lips. 
The cream-luster of pearls; red and blue gleams from 
paste diamonds! 

“Why, they look genuine!” she cried; then shud- 
dered. “There ’s a terrible fascination about jewels, 
Alan. They always have a story. Murder and pillage ! ’ 5 

“Grease and dirt usually, in India,” he interpolated 
with a smile, taking the box. “But let ’s forget 
Chavigny and the round dozen Rajahs that are wailing 
over their stolen jewels. I promised Gerrish — he ’s an 
old friend — we ’d dine with him this evening. Eight 
o’clock.” 

A few minutes later Dana unpacked her grips. Dear 
Alan! Her brother. After all those years. She won- 
dered if it were not a cjream, if presently she wouldn’t 
wake up back at Bayou Latouche, or in Tante Lucie’s 


DELHI 33 

court, down in New Orleans, with Tante Lucie talking 
of foreign lands 

2 

Night settled over Delhi. From the River Jumna 
to the Ridge, and beyond, tiny lights blinked at 
the shadows, and like a huge spirit-eye in the dusk the 
moon looked down upon the domes and minarets of the 
old Mogul capital. At the clubs electric punkahs 
fanned the air, ice clinked in frosted glasses and home- 
sick young officers read news-sheets from Britain. The 
network of narrow, constricted highways between Burra 
Bazaar and the Delhi Gate steamed and stewed, and 
heat and stench crawled beneath dirty eaves and bal- 
conies. South of the modern city, on the dead plain 
of Firozabad, thornbush and acacia rustled mournfully 
and ruined ramparts yielded up their nightly squadron 
of bats. 

In his residence beyond the Civil Lines, Colonel Sir 
Francis Duncraigie, Director of Central Intelligence, 
C. S. I., and probably one of the most important men in 
the empire, sat alone in his writing-room beneath a 
mildly whirring fan, and sweltered and swore. 

As a house-boy appeared like a white wraith from 
the dusk of the hall, he looked up. 

“Well?” 

“Did you call, 0 Presence?” 

Sir Francis glared. “No!” Then, “But wait!” 

A pattering noise sounded from the driveway, and 


34 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


he rose and strode to the window, parting the draper- 
ies. What he saw, fantastic in the hazy moonlight, was 
a palanquin with drawn curtains, borne on the shoul- 
ders of four coolies. 

4 ‘What ’n Tophet!” fie exclaimed, for palanquins are 
rare in the present-day Delhi of cabs and motorcars, 
nor is it the custom of Mohammedan ladies, who ride 
in these picturesque conveyances, to call upon officers 
of the empire. 

“If it ’s anybody to see me, tell ’em I have an ap- 
pointment and they ’ll have to wait,” he instructed 
briefly, turning back. 

The house-boy disappeared, and Sir Francis resumed 
his seat. After a moment the boy returned. 

“She says you have an appointment with her, O 
Presence !” 

The colonel stared. “What!” Pause. “By George! 
Perhaps you J d better show her in!” 

He watched the doorway, and presently a white 
figure materialized. He rose. The woman wore a 
bhourka — the long cotton garment that Mohammedan 
ladies affect in public, and which leaves only the eyes 
visible. 

“You wish to s'ee me?” asked the Director of Cen- 
tral Intelligence. 

The hood of the bhourka was thrown back . . . and 
the colonel, who while on duty hibernated under the 
armor of official dignity, came out of his shell. No man 
would question her beauty, many her type. The fea- 


DELHI 


35 


tures were long and narrow, and a warm gold, suggest- 
ing an Aryan strain, underlay her clear skin. The eyes, 
rather heavy-lidded, were baffling, and of a deep violet 
shade— like the peaks of the Khyber after the sunset 
gun at Jamrud Fort. Black hair clouded her face. 

“You are surprised to see me — like this?” she en- 
quired, indicating the bhourka. 

Her voice was low and rich, and marked by a huski- 
ness that was rare in that it was musical. Her English 
was flawless. 

“Well, rather!” confessed the colonel. 

“Am I late?” — as he drew up a chair for her. 

“On the minute,” he lied. 

She smiled tolerantly. “Will you close the door, 
please?” 

With a speed that would have made his subalterns 
gasp, he hastened to obey. 

“Since I received your telephone call,” he told her, 
settling himself behind the desk, “I have been all in- 
terest. What is it this time — more plots against the 
Sirkar?” 

She made a grimace. ‘ ‘ Plots spring up and die over- 
night! If I concerned myself with such minor occur- 
rences, I should be eternally occupied. I told you I 
wished to see you regarding a matter of importance.” 

She paused and he said: “Well?” 

“What happened on the night of June fourteenth?” 

He stared at her. “You don’t mean — ” 

“But I do ” 


36 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


He drummed upon the desk. 

“You have not answered me,” she reminded, after 
a moment. “What did happen on that night? Why 
not read me your files ?” 

He unlocked a drawer of his desk and removed a file 
cabinet. From the latter he took a sheaf of papers. 

* ' The Treasure House at Alwar was robbed, ’ ’ he said, 
his eyes upon the papers in his hand. ‘ ‘ The diamonds 
alone are worth ten thousand pounds, and — but you 
don’t want me to go into detail, do you? Well, gems 
valued at three hundred thousand pounds, sterling, 
were spirited away from the Nazarbagh Palace at 
Baroda. Tukaji Rao of Indore lost his Pearl Scarf and 
the Peacock Turban. The treasury at Jodpur was 
looted. Scindia of Gwalior’s pearls were stolen. 
Others who were robbed are: your cousin, the Nawab 
of Jehelumpore, the Nawab of Bahawalpur, the Rajah 
of Mysore and the Rajah of Tanjore.” He halted, 
raising his eyes. “In other words, on the night of 
June fourteenth jewels worth millions of pounds were 
snatehed away under the very nose of the Government, 
without leaving one single thread to grasp ! If anyone 
had even suggested such a preposterous thing before, 
I ’d have laughed!” 

“Then the 'Delhi Post’ did not tell the truth this 
morning,” ventured the woman, “when it said, 'the 
Intelligence Department has a valuable clue’?” 

“Well, so we have,” he admitted. 

“Chavigny?” 

He gave her a swift glance. “How did you know?” 


DELHI 37 

She dismissed the question with a shrug and 
said : 

“You agree with me, I am sure, Sir Francis, that 
these robberies are connected; that it is highly improb- 
able to think for an instant that in nine cities thefts 
of famous jewels merely occurred simultaneously. 
As for this Chavigny — judging from his reputation 
he is clever enough to have done it. However, 
reflect upon the difficulties he would encounter. India 
is not like Europe. There is caste to consider. He is 
a white man. Furthermore, the jewels were stolen 
from state treasuries; from buildings, in some instances 
vaults, that are not easily accessible. ’ ’ 

“Then you think it the work of some sort of organ- 
ized band?” 

“I think exactly as you do,” she replied cryptically, 
“only I have foundation for my belief, while you are — 
rather, your department, is — well, romancing.” 

Silence fell. The man was the first to speak. 

“I ’m to infer, then, that in your opinion Chavigny 
had nothing whatever to do with the robberies?” 

She smiled. “Did I say that?” 

“At least, you hinted that there is something rather 
big behind the thefts.” 

She continued to smile and leaned upon the desk, 
facing him. 

“To come to the purpose of this call, Sir Francis. 
If you will give me four months — and a free rein — you 
have my word that I will recover every jewel that was 
stolen on the night of June fourteenth.” 


38 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


It was with difficulty that the Director of Central In- 
telligence smothered an impulse to smile and suggested 
soberly : 

“Won’t you be more explicit? This is — well, from 
my viewpoint, it seems rather incredible. ’ ’ 

“I mean, with the aid of one of your men I will do 
what your Department could never accomplish. May 
I have him?” 

“The whole of the Secret Service is at your dis- 
posal ! ’ ’ — magnanimously. 

She gestured impatiently. “Woodenheads, all of 
them ! ’ ’ 

Sir Francis almost gasped. “Even Euan Kerth?” 
he managed to ask calmly. 

“I do not know Euan Kerth, but he is reputed to be 
the lion of your Department. He would more than 
likely prove unmanageable. No, Euan Kerth does not 
qualify.” 

He chewed his lip. “Really, won’t you throw a 
little more light on the subject?” 

“No,” she replied in mellifluous tones, with her most 
distracting smile. “You recall what happened in the 
affair of Amar Singh, when your men investigated? 
1 shall handle this after my own manner — or wash my 
hands of it.” 

Sir Francis’ forehead wrinkled in an official frown. 

“This is most extraordinary! Is that a — er — 
threat?” 

“Dare one threaten the Intelligence Department?” 
she purred. 


DELHI 39 

He drummed upon the surface of his desk again. 
His thoughts at that moment were none too pleasant. 

4 ‘Well, what are your terms ?” came at length from 

him. 

She was aware that she was mistress of the situa- 
tion, and she enjoyed the position. 

‘ ‘ I wish to choose the man with whom I am to work, ’ ’ 
she began. ‘ * I am not to be spied upon by your agents ; 
in fact, the first indication of any sort of surveillance 
will end our contract. The man I choose will not be 
permitted to communicate with you, or with anyone, 
until we have finished. He must obey me implicitly. 
If you agree to my terms, I shall name a meeting-place, 
and from the instant this man enters the house he is 
mine; he disappears from your observation completely 
until I give him back to the Raj. Meanwhile, you will 
follow up the clues you have; you will forget me, you 
will forget the man who is to help me — and at the end 
of four months I will keep my pledge.” 

Sir Francis concealed his thoughts under a smile, and 
well he did. 

“You ask the impossible. Why, that ’s prepos- 
terous ! ’ * 

“You question my loyalty?” 

A spark showed in the violet eyes — steel under the 
velvet. 

“Your loyalty is not involved in this discussion; it 
is simply that you ask things that are unprecedented 
in the service.” 

“The happenings of June fourteenth are without pre- 


40 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


cedent/ ’ she returned swiftly. “Come, Sir Francis, 
what are you losing in this venture ? On the contrary, 
you gain much. I want no credit ; when I have finished 
I vanish from the affair, completely. One of the stip- 
ulations is that my name must not be mentioned in con- 
nection with the work. Simply, your curiosity is 
piqued. And your masculine vanity suffers at the 
thought that a woman can do what you, with your hun- 
dreds of eyes, can not. Be reasonable. I give my word, 
a word that you have reason to know is always kept, 
that your man shall come to no harm. You do not 
question my loyalty, you say; then what reason for re- 
fusal have you ? Simply that in the stale, musty annals 
of your Department such a thing has never been done ! ’ ’ 

The Director of Central Intelligence leaned back in 
his chair. 

“Do you know” — and he smiled as he said it — “I 
could have you — er — detained as a suspicious person, 
if I felt so disposed.” 

Her musical laughter rippled out. “But you do not 
feel so disposed, for what would it gain you?” 

Their eyes met and there followed a quick duel. . . 
The man’s smile was a sign of defeat. 

“If you don’t want a Secret Service man, whom do 
you want?” 

“A man who has brains and imagination — and, be- 
sides those, honor.” 

“Name him.” 

“Major Arnold Trent of Gaya.” 

Sir Francis lifted his eyebrows. “He is a doctor.” 


DELHI 


41 


“That is the way with you military men” — with a 
sigh. “If one is a physician, you think he knows 
nothing but what is taught in schools of medicine! I 
want some one whose brain is free of tiresome Secret 
Service rules/ ’ 

The Colonel smiled. “You are a very resourceful 
woman,” he declared. 

“That means you accept ?” 

“It means I recognize your ability, and that I shall 
communicate with the Viceroy to-morrow and give you 
my decision as soon as possible/ ’ 

She smiled her approval and rose. 

“Then I shall not prolong this interview. Good 
night, Sir Francis. ’ ’ 

She gave him her hand and moved to the door, where 
she halted, turning back. 

“I nearly forgot,” she said. “There is one other 
clause in the agreement. Major Trent must be kept in 
ignorance of the party with whom he is to work. To 
him you may call me — well, the Swaying Cobra.” She 
smiled again. “By that name I was known when I 
danced on the Continent.” 

Then she departed, melting into the dusky hallway. 

After a moment Sir Francis moved to the window and 
parted the draperies slightly. The palanquin was pass- 
ing, swimming in yellow moonlight. He watched it un- 
til it lost itself in shadows. 

“Now what the deuce!” he muttered. 

He resumed his seat and searched several drawers 
until he found a black book; then he ran through the 


42 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


pages, halting at: “Trent, Arnold Ralph, Major , 
R . A. M. C. . . He read the lines following the 
name; took the receiver from a telephone on his desk; 
called for a number. 

“Kane?” he asked when he was connected. “Dun- 
eraigie. You might come out this way to-night. Im- 
portant matter. Sarojini Nanjee just called. What! 
Surely you remember her! Connection of the Nawab 
of Jehelumpore; danced in London and Paris for a 
while. Half white, fourth Rajput, and the rest devil.” 
He chuckled. “Thought you ’d recall her. I ’ll be 
waiting for you.” 

He placed the receiver upon the hook and sat staring 
reflectively at the doorway where the woman of the 
bhonrka disappeared. 

“Hell-cat!” he said aloud. 

Which may or may not have been the impression she 
intended to give. 

3 

An hour after the interview with the Director of 
Central Intelligence, Sarojini Nanjee lay back in a 
great cane chair in the living-room of her bungalow, 
idly watching the smoke from her cigarette as it spiraled 
upward and was rent into vaporous tatters by the elec- 
tric punkah. 

The room, like its occupant, was exotic. A Kyoto 
gong kindled a bright spot among softer tones — rare 
rugs, brocade hangings, and a tall lamp afloat on the 


DELHI 


43 


shadows, like an amber island. The woman seemed to 
melt into it, her very attitude expressing its utter 
luxury. Deep iris-hued eyes dreamed under heavy lids. 
Her skin glowed with a golden sheen, and the lacy folds 
of a negligee fell sheer from her slender ankles and em- 
broidered the carpet with foamy white. 

She had been thus for some time, her brain immersed 
in a languor, her thoughts propelled with as little men- 
tal volition as possible. She stirred only to flick the 
cigarette-aslies into a brass bowl at her elbow, or to arch 
one arm above her head in a gesture of complete aban- 
don. A passing recollection of her call at Sir Francis 
Duncraigie’s residence invariably caused a faint, in- 
scrutable smile to slip into her eyes. But for the most 
part she did not burden herself with either thought or 
retrospection; merely sat in the dull, sweet stupor of 
semi-inertia. 

A night beetle rattled harshly outside. The sound 
came to the woman as a sudden recall from her absorp- 
tion. She placed her nearly burnt-out cigarette in the 
ash-bowl; stretched, rose, and struck the Kyoto gong. 
As the rich, deep-throated echo sank into a hush, the 
curtains on one side of the room parted and a servant 
in white garments and a blue turban entered. 

“I shall retire now, Chandra Lai,” she announced 
quietly. “You have your instructions.” 

“Yes, Heavenborn!” 

“You remember the place — the room?” 

“How could I forget, Heavenborn?” 


44 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


4 ‘You will” — she hesitated— -“ cause no injury unless 
necessary. ’ ’ 

“Nay, Heavenborn!” 

“Stop calling me that!” — irritably. 

Scarlet betel-stained teeth were revealed in a smile. 

“Very well, Memsahib.” 

‘ ‘ You may go now. ’ ’ 

“To hear is to obey, Memsahib!” 

The blue-turbaned Chandra Lai slipped noiselessly 
between the curtains. 

Sarojini Nanjee moved to a door in the other end of 
the room, paused tentatively and stepped over the 
threshold. The door closed behind her. 

And as she left the room, Chandra Lai reappeared. 

He stood motionless in the division of the curtains, 
listening ; then crept softly to a desk in a dusky comer. 
He produced a key from his breeches; fitted it into a 
lock; opened a drawer. For several seconds his hands 
moved swiftly, silently through the papers within. 
After that he wrote a line on a small scrap of paper. 
This he folded and slipped under the edge of his blue 
turban. 

Noiselessly he locked the drawer and recrossed the 

room. At the doorway he looked back The 

curtains fell together behind him. 

4 

Dana Charteris sat before a mirror in her room at 
the hotel and released her hair from all restrain- 


DELHI 


45 


ing pins. It tumbled over her shoulders in ripples of 
gold; little bronze-tipped waves, rather reddish, glowed 
with soft fire under the searching rays of the electric 
lamp. The face that looked back at her from the mir- 
ror, a face framed in the shimmering copperish masses, 
had a lustrous pallor. She returned the stare of her 
own image solemnly and realized, not for the first time, 
that while the features in the mirror were those of a 
girl, there were hints of maturity. The fullness of the 
throat, of the lips, and the sympathetic, almost poignant 
expression in the brown eyes. 

She sighed, then hummed a little tune as she ran a 
comb through the thick strands. The odor of tobacco 
floated to her from the adjoining room where Alan was 
making out a report. She liked the smell; it was clean 
and masculine. 

When she had plaited her hair into two long braids, 
she slipped into a dressing-gown and pattered into her 
brother’s room in bedroom sandals. 

“Alan,” she said, slipping her arms about his neck, 
“it ’s so wonderful to be with you! Why, just think, 
two months ago I was teaching music in Bayou 
Latouche ! ’ ’ 

He put his pipe aside. 

‘ * To-morrow we ’ll ramble about the city, through the 
Fort and the bazaars,” he told her. “And the next 
day — to Lahore.” 

“I always think of Lahore with a picture of Kim 
sitting on ‘ Zam-zammah ’ .” 


46 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


He smiled. “Then to Peshawar and the Khyber. 
I Ve an old friend at Ali Masjid Fort and he ’s prom- 
ised to take us through the Pass.” 

Then he rose, picked her up bodily and carried her 
into her room, placing her upon the bed. 

‘ ‘ Good night ; sleep tight ! ’ ’ 

He kissed her, turned out the light and returned to 
his room. 

Dana slipped out of her dressing-gown ; flung it across 
the foot of the bed ; dropped her slippers upon the floor. 
Then she lay back upon the pillows, watching the moon- 
light that streamed in through the open casement. 

The wide-flung windows yielded a view of the sky 
and the white Indian stars. In her fancy she likened 
them to a string of jewels. Jewels. That word brought 
to her mind a picture of the looted treasurers of which 
Alan had told her. Gems. What fascinating things! 
Jewels of rajahs and maharajahs, the pomp and rust of 
pagan rulers! Diamonds stripped from idols' eyes, 
and rubies and sapphires pillaged from the vaults of 
ancient temples! She had heard stories of the pearl 
fisheries of Ceylon where stones were stolen and hidden 

in cobras, even in human bodies India, mother 

of intrigue. She shivered. 

She could not forget the copy of the Pearl Scarf of 
Indore. It haunted her. . . . Pearls. . . . Chavigny, 
a thief of international notoriety. . . . Alan’s pen was 
scratching steadily on in the next room. The odor of 
tobacco was comforting. It made her forget the jewels 
of Ind; conjured in her mind a picture of the great, 


DELHI 


47 


pillared house at Bayou Latouche. And she was still 
thinking of Bayou Latouche, and hearing faintly the 
scratch-scratch of the pen, when she fell asleep. 

5 

Dana awakened with a start. Involuntarily she sat 
up in bed, staring drowsily about the room. It 
was buried in dusk. The moonlight, floating through 
the casement, crusted the floor with a band of pearl. 
As full consciousness wiped the threads of sleep from 
her brain, she wondered what had caused her sudden 
awakening. No noise, for silence shut down like a lid, 
made more intense by the sighing of trees beyond the 
stone terrace. The sounds of a clock on the dressing- 
table seemed to stitch the hush. 

For a moment she sat there, vaguely uneasy; then 
swung her feet over the side and slipped them into bed- 
room sandals. Moving quietly to the dressing-table, 
she looked at the clock. After one. . . . Her sandals 
lisped on the floor as she crept to the window. 

Delhi lay asleep in the breathless night. Temple, 
tower, dome and minaret swam in the moonlight, and in 
the jungle stretch by the river jackals were laughing 
hysterically. With a little shiver she returned to the 
bed. 

Strange to awaken like this, she thought. The new 
surroundings probably. She sighed and settled deeper 
in the bed. 

.... She was almost asleep when a shadow flitted 
across her vision. At first it seemed a part of the slum- 


48 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


her that had nearly overcome her, and she lay there 
contemplating the window-casement where it had passed 
until it was borne to her, suddenly, and not without 
a shock, that she was fully awake and the shadow was 
not a shadow, but a very substantial human form that 
had stolen by on the stone terrace. The realization 
drew her muscles rigid, and she lay motionless, listening 
to the hammering of her .heart. 

A faint scraping noise came from Alan’s room. 
What was it, a footfall? An oblong reservoir of dark- 
ness outlined the doorway. She could see nothing. . . . 
She must move, must call her brother. But her body 
was locked in a temporary paralysis, her tongue dry. 

Again the sound. Unmistakable. Some one was 
walking stealthily. The crackle of paper. 

Her fright increased, swelled, became so acute that 
she could no longer endure it. 

“Alan!” 

It was not a scream; a whisper. She found that she 
could move, and she sat up. 

From the next room came a series of thuds; bare 
feet on the floor. 

“Damn you — ” 

She leaped out of bed. 

A ripping sound. A groan. Another thud, heavier 
this time. 

Dana reached the communicating door in a few steps. 
A quick intake of breath. Her hands closed upon the 
door-frame, tightened convulsively. Dimness swam vis- 


DELHI 49 

ibly before her. Through the dark mist she saw a figure 
dart out upon the stone terrace and disappear. 

Beside the bed, stretched full length upon the floor, 
was a white form. 

She screamed. The dimness dissolved and she 
rushed to the body. 

“Alan ! Alan!” 

She grasped his shoulders, dizzy, cold with horror. 
Involuntarily she drew one hand away and saw a dark 
stain upon her fingers. It seemed to glare out and 
strike her eyes. She fought against a gathering weak- 
ness; forced herself to feel his heart. Beating. But 
that white face! And how could she lift him to the 
bed, how — 

Footsteps rang from the hall. Came a knock at the 
door; a voice penetrated the panels. 

Dana rose, found the light-switch and turned it. The 
flood of yellow gave warmth and strength to her — 
showed her a blue coil in the middle of the room. 
Dimly she realized it was a turban cloth — probably 
torn from the intruder’s head. She did not touch it, 
but unlocked the door. 

The Eurasian proprieter stood outside, in a dressing- 
gown. Behind him was a dark-skinned porter. A 
door opened further along the hall. 

“My brother!” she gasped, motioning toward the 
white form. 

The Eurasian spoke to the porter. They entered and 
placed the unconscious man upon the bed. Oblivious 


50 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


of the fact that she was clad only in a nightdress, Dana 
stood by, trying to collect her scattered faculties. 

4 ‘If you will call a doctor,” she said, “I ’ll attend 
to him now.” 

“Yes, madam. I ’ll have the boy fetch some water 
and smelling-salts from my wife’s room. How did this 
happen?” 

4 4 1 — I can ’t think — now, ’ ’ she returned dazedly. 
“Later. . . .” 

The Eurasian said something, but she did not remem- 
ber what it was ; remembered only that he and the porter 
went out. A moment after the door closed she heard 
voices in the hall. 

“O Alan!’ she pleaded, bending over her brother. 
“Can’t you hear me?” 

Several minutes passed before he showed any symp- 
toms of reviving; then he mumbled a few unintelligible 
words, and the lids drew back from his eyes. 

“Dana!” — weakly. “He — took it — ” 

“What, Alan, dear?” 

“The scarf — confounded imitation.” He closed his 
eyes ; opened them an instant later. “I ’ll be all right, ’ ’ 
— with a smile. “Nothing serious. Don’t mention the 

scarf, or anything about it. Just say — thief ” 

The lids sank over his eyes. “Imitation,” he muttered. 
And fainted again. 

.... The Eurasian returned shortly, with the 
porter at his heels. The latter carried a basin of 
water and several bottles. 

“If you ’ll allow me to attend to him,” offered the 


DELHI 


51 


proprieter, “it will spare you much unpleasantness.” 

Dana nodded and sank into a chair, shivering. 

Nearly an hour passed before the doctor arrived. 
Alan had regained consciousness, but fainted during 
the examination. Dana, standing beside the bed in her 
negligee, waited nervously to hear the decision. 

“I don’t think you have any cause to be uneasy,” 
said the doctor, after what seemed an interminable time. 
“The wound isn’t serious — only the muscles and 
tissues punctured — nothing internal. But I ’m going 
to suggest, rather, insist, that he go to a hospital.” 

“By all means,” agreed Dana, very close to tears. 
“I want everything possible done for him.” 

The doctor smiled sympathetically. “Be sure we 11 
do all we can,” he assured her. “Now, if you 11 have 
some one fetch a basin of water, boiled, I 11 get at this 
dressing. ’ 9 

Close to dawn, after the doctor had departed and 
Alan was conscious, Dana went to her room to dress. 
At the doorway she paused — for the blue turban-cloth 
lay coiled upon the threshold where she had tossed it. 
Incidents of greater importance had crowded the re- 
membrance of it from her brain. Now she stooped and 
picked it up, rather gingerly. Queer. For imitation 
pearls ! 

She lowered her eyes, suddenly, involuntarily — as 
though in obedience to a subconscious command. 

On the spot where the turban-cloth had lain was a 
small scrap of paper. 

Thus, having jested with a puppet at Indore and 


52 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


given a thread into the hands of Dana Charteris, Des- 
tiny, capricious as the winds, turned toward the officer 
of the empire upon whom a chalk-mark had previously 
been placed. 


CHAPTER II 

A PIECE OP CORAL 

S UNSET was spreading a fan of flamingo plumes 
above Meera, a native village to the northward of 
Gaya, when Arnold Trent (unaware that Destiny had 
been hovering over him since Dana Charteris found the 
scrap of paper, in Delhi, three days before) clattered 
out of the jungle and along the nearly deserted main 
street. At the council-tree, where the headman of the 
village sat and chewed betel-leaf, he drew rein, listening 
to a low, eerie wailing that came from one of the white- 
washed houses. 

“It is Chatter jee,” volunteered the headman. “His 
Ratanamma is dead, Dakktar Sahib. ” 

Trent swung down from his saddle. “When did it 
happen, Ranjeet Singh?” 

“Not an hour past, Dakktar Sahib.” 

Trent’s eyes roved up and down the street. 
“Where ’s everybody? Meera looks as if a plague 
had struck it.” 

Ranjeet Singh, who was a Jain, spat contemptuously. 
“Some vermin-ridden priests from Tibet are at the 
Sacred Bo-tree,” he explained, “and the worshippers 
of Gaudama have swarmed thither, like flies to a dung- 
feast!” 

Trent smiled slightly and moved toward one of the 
whitewashed houses, swinging along with the leisurely, 
53 


54 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


easy stride of one poised on well-controlled muscles. 
At the door he paused. It was dark within, and a 
breath of offal and man-reek greeted him. After a 
moment he saw, against the darkness, the pale silhouette 
of a white-clad figure. From this figure came the eerie 
wails. 

‘ ‘ Chatter jee!” Trent called. 

The silhouette ceased wailing long enough to quaver : 
“Dakktar Sahib!” 

The Englishman, his eyes now accustomed to the 
gloom, strode over to a thong-strung bed and peered 
down at the form stretched upon it. Unable to see 
clearly, he struck a match. The tiny flare flickered 
upon bare brown skin Trent swore. 

“Stop that damned nonsense!” he commanded. 
“Chatter jee, you ’ve had some infernal hakim here 
again — against my orders!” 

“My little Ratanamma, dove of my bosom, is dead!” 
wailed the man. 

“Did you give her the medicine I left?” 

“Yes, Dakktar Sahib! It was your medicine that 
killed her. The hakim said so.” 

Trent swore again. “I Ve a notion to report you to 
the Karnal Sahib and have you taken up] You old 
murderer! Didn’t you know better than to let some 
filthy, stinking hakim burn her stomach with a hot 
iron?” 

The native was wailing again. 

“Listen to me, Chatterjee,” said Trent sternly, grip- 
ping the man ’s shoulder. ‘ ‘ Who did this ? ’ ’ 

“Your medicine, Dakktar Sahib!” 


A PIECE OF CORAL 55 

Trent shook him roughly. “Will you answer me — 
or. . . .” 

“Your medicine, Dakktar Sahib !” insisted the man. 

Trent released him, realizing the futility of pressing 
the question. 

“Very well. I 11 report you to the Karnal Sahib 
and he 11 have you strung up by your toes!” 

He left the house abruptly — followed by feverish, 
glowing eyes. 

Out of Meera he rode, past the temple on the river 
bank and along the jungle-lined road toward Gaya. 

Trent was angry. But his face gave no indication 
of it. Twenty-three years under a tropical sun (add 
the ten years at school in Britain and you 11 have his 
age) had baked his skin to a leather brown, and a third 
of that time spent in the army had taught him that im- 
passivity is man’s chief advantage — a citadel against 
the aggressive. He had, in the vernacular of the times, 
a “poker face” — the mask of those who share their se- 
crets with few. In either mufti or khaki he was not 
particularly handsome, and this evening, after a day 
of work in viscid heat, he was almost ugly. Dust was 
ingrained into his skin, like an ocher pigment; his 
throat and brows were moist with perspiration. Yet 
there was about him something arresting and vital — 
a challenging strength that pronounced him a man’s 
man. And he was. He talked with men; ate with 
men ; lived with men ; understood men. Scales that dip 
into earth-dust and swing again to regions of exquisite 
idealism — the eternal weight and counter-weight of 


56 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Self. That was how he defined them. And his defi- 
nitions were usually metaphors. An idiosyncrasy. 
Give him a chair in a dim room with one of Beethoven’s 
sonatas swelling in throat-gripping chords, or a pipe 
and congenial darkness somewhere close to the stars, 
and he was in his prime element. 

As for women. . . . That there had been one — one or 
more — at some time in his life, nobody who knew him 
doubted; but it was the general opinion at Gaya and 
thereabouts that he was as little concerned with women 
as with anything else that habited the planet. Envi- 
ous subordinates hinted that at one time or other he had 
run afoul some feminine reef. When these remarks 
drifted to Trent (and such remarks always do) he only 
smiled, for he had a generous supply of humor packed 
away under his impassivity. It was never known that 
he deliberately avoided women; it appeared that he 
simply accepted them as a matter of form, inevi- 
table as waves on a sea, and sometimes as disas- 
trous. 

Only Richard Manlove, also an army doctor, who 
shared his bungalow, had penetrated beyond the outer- 
rampart of his seeming seclusiveness — ‘‘Dicky” Man- 
love whom Trent first saw out in dead Mesopotamia. 
Their friendship was a popular topic of discussion on 
warm afternoons when feminine Gaya gathered to per- 
spire under one common punkah. So different, you 
know. . . . Young “Dicky” — a delicious boy . . . . 
and the major — oh, rather a decent chap, a human man- 
ual of Hindustani and all those other perfectly impos- 


A PIECE OF CORAL 57 

sible languages, but .... well, it ’s so disconcerting not 
to know what a man is thinking, isn’t it? 

Thus feminine Gaya catalogued him, and thus he 
appeared — immobile — this late afternoon as he rode out 
of Meera. 

His anger died as he trotted on, and by the time he 
came within view of his bungalow, built on the flank of 
one of Gaya’s hills, he was watching, in a whimsical, 
almost detached manner, the fireflies dance and reel in 
the dusk. When he drew nearer, he saw a figure in a 
white dress leave his compound, a figure that paused at 
the diverging roads not far from the bungalow, and. 
after a slight hesitation, chose the branch in his direc- 
tion. Instantly he indexed her as a stranger ; no female 
resident would think of using the isolated Meera road 
after dusk. 

She wore a pith helmet with a veil. The veil was 
lifted, but as he approached, she lowered it — curiously 
enough, he thought. He was certain she had come from 
his compound; therefore, when she was within a few 
yards, he drew rein. 

“Your pardon . ...” as he lifted his helmet. “Do 
you wish to see me? I ’m Major Trent.” 

She halted, resting one hand upon a tree-trunk. He 
caught the glint of a bracelet on her white arm, and, 
being a man to notice details, observed a design worked 
in heavy relief upon it — a design that, in the half-tone 
of the early night, was almost indistinguishable. 

“No,” came the answer from under the veil, in a 
voice with a soft, thrilling timbre. “No.” 


58 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


He was still studying the bracelet out of the corner 
of his eye, and he perceived that the intricate workman- 
ship represented a king-cobra; its hood was lifted in 
bizarre relief. ... A barbaric ornament for a white 
woman to wear, he thought. 

“But, really, ” he persisted, “it isn’t quite safe for 
you to go along this road. Beasts, you know.” 

A pause. He saw the dark pools of her eyes upon 
him. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I thought I was go- 
ing to the dak bungalow.” 

With that she turned and moved away in the direc- 
tion of the metalled main highway. 

“Now, that ’s queer,” he observed to himself, staring 
after her. “Anybody with even bad sight could see 
that this road. ...” Certainly she was at the com- 
pound gate. Why had she falsified? 

He removed his helmet and furrowed his hair — a 
characteristic gesture; then, still watching the woman, 
he jerked the reins and trotted toward the bungalow. 

2 

A native servant in a white cotton chuddah and tur- 
ban switched on the light in the living-room as Trent 
entered. 

‘ ‘ Has Manlove Sahib come in, Ganeesh ? ’ ’ asked the 
Englishman. 

“No, Dakktar Sahib.” 

Trent placed his helmet upon the table and sank into 
a chair. 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


59 


“I sha’n’t want anything to eat, so you may as well 
go. If Manlove Sahib hasn’t eaten, he can go to the 
barracks. ’ ’ 

As the native quitted the room, Trent, at a sudden 
thought, called after him. 

“Ganeesh,” he said, as his servant reappeared, “has 
anyone been here this afternoon?” 

“No, Dakktar Sahib.” 

“Didn’t a lady call a few minutes ago?” 

The man answered in the negative. 

“Hmm. Very well. That ’s all.” 

Still puzzling over the strange woman, he removed a 
pipe and a sack of tobacco from his shirt pocket, and 
when he had filled the bowl he lighted it. For several 
minutes he drew upon the amber stem, looking ab- 
stractedly into the whorls of smoke; then he picked up 
a brown volume from the table and opened it at a leaf 
that was turned under. 

Here was another trait that Gaya had not discovered. 
Frequently when he was tired he turned to poetry — 
sometimes to books on the art-treasures and ancient lore 
of India, Indo-China and China — for relaxation. 

His eyes followed these lines: 

Star of the South that now through orient mist, 

At nightfall off Tampico or Belize, 

Greetest the sailor, rising from those seas 

Where first in me, a fond romanticist, 

The tropic sunset’s bloom on cloudy piles 

Cast out industrious cares with dreams of fabulous isles. 

He rather fancied that passage. Fabulous isles. 


60 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


His brain toyed with the thought. For, although he 
walked dowq among mortals, sheathing himself in in- 
difference and impassivity, he kept, in secret, a ladder 
to the stars — a concession to return at will to a guarded 
kingdom of his youth, the dominion of Romance and 
Adventure. He would have dwelt in this kingdom, se- 
cluded from earth, but for a thorn that was fastened 
deep within him. This thorn had pricked him since 
that period of adolescence when first visions and aspi- 
rations stirred in his boyish brain and set him to dream- 
ing of the future. It had goaded him relentlessly into 
achievement, against the will of his adventurous spirit. 
Strive as he might, he could not draw it out. 

It was Ambition. 

Because of it he had buried a dream that at odd mo- 
ments returned and haunted him, like the poignantly 
sweet odor of lavender rising from packed-away treas- 
ures. Reckless, this dream, dangerous. To forsake 
the dull earth; drink freedom from the winds. A pas- 
sion for the open spaces — to explore the fabulous isles. 
But the lure of uncharted seas and archipelagoes beyond 
the sunset, sheer and calling as they were, could 
not entice him to trample tradition. Ambition had 
won. And he beheld himself now, at thirty-three, a ro- 
mantic soul armored in realism ; at heart a boy who had 
never broken away from the age when flapping canvas 
and groaning timbers cause a queer clutching in the 
throat. His reckless impulses and desires were bitted 
and diverted into accomplishment. He was a success. 
But there were times, often in the dead of the night, 


A PIECE OF CORAL 61 

with the jungle solitude challenging speech, when he 
realized that, in his own eyes, he was a failure. 

He sighed unconsciously, almost inaudibly, and his 
sea-green eyes softened to gray as he fashioned, extrav- 
agantly, a blue dragon in the tobacco smoke that coiled 
sinuously toward the ceiling ; sighed, as he often did in 
the quiet of his own quarters where only the walls 
might hear. 

His thoughts switched involuntarily to the present 
(and his eyes lost some of their grayness, for their color 
seemed to change with his moods) and focussed upon 
the communication he had received that morning. 
Under the precise military wording he sensed another 
element. Mystery. After all these prosaic years was 
he to be drawn out of his cocoon of medicines and gauze 
bandages and have his adventure? In all probability 
the affair would prove drab enough. Adventure ? 
Well, hardly. Things of the sort set forth in the des- 
patch were usually rather unpleasant. Yet it intrigued 
him. Blindfolded. And was not that it? 

. . . temporarily attached to. . . . Euan Kerth 
.... a woman called the Swaying Cobra. . . .” 

Fragments of the communication filtered through his 
brain. Strange. From pills and antiseptics to that! 
It was leaving a cocoon ! What a joke to tell Manlove. 
Dear old Manlove — this with warmth. 

The sounds of walking in the compound announced 
the object of his thoughts. The footsteps drew nearer, 
crossed the veranda, and Manlove, uniformed and 
helmeted, entered. 


62 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Rum day,” he said. “Hot as Tophet; everything 

wrong. 7 7 

Trent made no comment; only nodded. 

“There ’s a big shindy up at the Sacred Bo-tree,” 
the other added. “Some Tibetan lamas are there. I 
stopped by with Herrick.” 

ITe took off his helmet, the removal revealing to the 
light a tanned, boyish face and a healthy thatch of hair ; 
mopped his forehead and flung his headgear carelessly 
across the room. That was his way, to appear careless. 
But at heart he was not; he liked small boundaries 
(while Trent craved larger ranges), homely things. 
He looked forward to the time when he would come into 
possession of “Gray Towers, 7 7 ancestral abiding-place 
of the Manloves. Of course, he didn't want his grand- 
father, more familiarly known as the Old Fellow, to die 
or anything like that; he was simply prepared for the 
inevitable : The Right Honorable Richard Auckland 
Manlove, sitting in the House of Lords and presenting 
Colonial improvement measures, for India in particular ; 
no longer “Dicky 77 Manlove, irresponsible adventurer, 

but carrying the ponderous dignity of the name 

It was all very impressive 

“Mrs. Dalhousie is giving a lawn party tonight, 77 he 
announced, taking a chair. “Impromptu. She told me 
to drag you along, if you 7 d come.” 

“Sorry, 77 returned Trent. “I 7 m leaving for Bena- 
res early in the morning. I 7 11 be occupied to-night. 
Orders from Delhi. 77 

Manlove withdrew a cigarette case from under his 


A PIECE OF CORAL 63 

tunic, opened it, took out a smoke and placed it between 
his lips before he spoke. 

‘ ‘ Deuce you say ! Not transferred ? ’ 9 

“Temporarily detached; special service. You and 
Conningsby will have to take charge while I ’m away.” 
He smiled. “Been reading the papers lately?” 

Manlove lighted his cigarette, glancing furtively at 
Trent. The latter was staring into the blue haze of 
smoke, half humorously, as though he found something 
amusing in the vaporous clouds. 

1 ‘ Certainly ’ ’ — thus Manlove. 

“Anything new about the jewels?” 

Manlove smiled to himself. He hadn’t lived in the 
same house with Arnold Trent for fourteen months with- 
out learning something about him. The old sphinx, he 
thought good-humoredly. 

“Nothing important” — briefly. “However, I under- 
stand, from Granville, that the Department believes an 
international thief — Chavigny ’s his name — mixed up in 
it.” 

“Wonder where Granville got that?” 

“Oh, rumors are plentiful, especially at stations like 
this where everybody’s chief occupation is talk.” 

“That all?” 

Manlove nodded and said nothing, for he knew Trent. 

“Have you approximated the value of the stolen 
gems?” queried the latter, then went on: “Millions 
of pounds! And have you wondered how the devil 
they ’re going to hide the loot, or get it out of India? 
Such well known jewels can’t be sold — ” 


64 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Unless they ’re re-cut,” put in Manlove. He smiled 
wisely. “By Kali and all the other deities, you don’t 
mean that you, expert in cholera and dysentery, are 
about to — ” He chuckled. “Well, I ’m damned!” 

Trent moved to a desk in a corner of the room, un- 
locked it and took out a long, official-looking document. 
This he handed to Manlove, then resumed his seat. 
The latter unfolded it and let his eyes travel down the 
sheet. 

“Has the heat gone to their heads at Delhi?” he 
demanded when he had finished. ‘ ‘ Almighty God, why 
detach a perfectly good doctor, when they have a whole 
list of Secret Service men ? ’ ’ 

Trent only smiled. The younger man waved his hand 
toward the paper. 

“Surely this isn’t all?” 

“You know as much as I do. I leave in the morning 
for Benares. At the hotel I ’m to meet a fellow called 
Kerth— ” 

“Euan Kerth,” Manlove interrupted, his eyes upon 
the document. “You ’ve heard of him, haven’t you? 
He ’s the best of his sort in India. He ’s been in Tibet ; 
was one of Younghusband’s interpreters in nineteen- 
four. Speaks Hindustani, Burmese, mandarin Chi- 
nese, Tibetan, and God knows what else! You and he 
ought to hit it off fairly well together. But go on.” 

“I ’m to meet him at the hotel,” Trent resumed. 
“Just what part he plays, I don’t know yet. There 
I ’m also to find a message from this Swaying Cobra 
woman, and meet her at a place named in the message. 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


65 


And — well, that ’s all.” He smiled. “Enlightening, 
isn't it?’ ’ 

As he finished, Manlove strode to the door and tossed 
away his cigarette. There he paused, peering out. 

“Where ’s Ganeesh?" he asked, looking over his 
shoulder. 

“I let him go for the evening. Why?" 

“Just saw some one leave the compound; must have 
been he." Manlove returned to his chair. “ Trent, I 
envy you — even if they are balmy at Delhi. This doc- 
toring heathens is n ’t all it ’s colored up to be. It ’s 
getting on my nerves. I even dream about fever and 
stinking fakirs.” 

Trent consulted his wrist-watch. “I have to ride up 
to Colonel Urqhart’s and make a report. Remember 
the chap at Meera, Chatter jee? Some hakim burned 
his child’s stomach with an iron. Of course she died. 
I ’m going to make an example of him." He rose. “I 
have to wash up a bit. I suppose you ’re going to the 
lawn party?" 

“Think not," decided Manlove. “I ’ll be here 
when you return." 

“Care to ride up with me?" 

“No. I ’m rather tired." 

Trent went to his bedroom and Manlove lighted 
another cigarette. He ’d miss the old sphinx, he told 
himself. Good old Trent! Why hadn’t he married? 
Frequently he asked himself that question ; never 
Trent. There must be a reason, he mused, flicking the 
ashes from his cigarette. Maybe there had been a 


66 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


woman — a typhoon. The typhoon sort could raise the 
deuce with a chap like Trent. Perhaps. ... He sti- 
fled a yawn. Damn India ; damn its climate. He 
hadn’t taken his leave this season; it was about due 
now. A jolly trip home ; see the Old Fellow ; see “Gray 
Towers.” 

He heard Trent moving about in the rear. He 
couldn’t picture him sleuthing it. Queer world any- 
how. And Benares. What was afoot? 

Another yawn. He flung his half-smoked cigarette 
through the doorway, and it fell upon the veranda in a 
mild shower of sparks, and lay there, its red tip glowing 
like a malevolent little eye. 

3 

It was after nine o’clock when Trent rode out of Sa- 
hib’s Gaya and around the shoulder of a hill toward 
his bungalow. A golden moon floated in nebulous haze 
— an electric disc that transfused its heat into the 
night. The earth steamed and sweltered, and the per- 
fumes of tropical blossoms stole out of the jungle and 
exhaled a heavy languor. 

Trent, pipe clamped between his teeth, sweat run- 
ning into his eyes from his helmet-band, jogged along, 
thinking leisurely (as men do in warmer climates) of 
the woman of the cobra-bracelet, and thinking more of 
the bracelet than the woman. It was one of his pecu- 
liarities to collect rare ornaments ; among his curios he 
had a bangle of a Nepalese princess, a Burmese bell 
from a pagoda in the Pyinmana district, and a silver- 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


67 


chased, turquoise-inset teapot from Tibet. The brace- 
let the woman, wore was finely wrought, and its design 
not of the ordinary ; this he recognized, even though he 
had but a glimpse of it. A king-cobra with a lifted 
hood. And the wearer. . . . Why had she lowered her 
veil — why had she denied that she came from his com- 
pound? Mystery. . . . But, he reflected, mysteries 
were not rare; mysteries, to such as he, in the jungle; 
in the ruins and tumbled grandeur of ancient temples ; 
in the dim, dark bazaars, spice-reeking, where filth 
mocks British law, and Love and Death are one 

A white figure, ahead in the scented gloom, broke into 
his thoughts, a figure that at first was distinguishable 
only as a stain of pallor on the roadway. Trent ex- 
perienced a quickening of interest. She of the cobra- 
bracelet? No. He could see now. Not a woman; a 
native. The man was moving at a swift gait, almost 
running ; but as he drew nearer, he halted, look- 
ing about irresolutely, nervously. And at that moment 
(he was not more than ten yards away) Trent recog- 
nized him and reined in his mare. 

“ Chatter jee!” he called. “D ’ ye want to see me?” 

The native did not answer, only fixed upon him a 
mute, terrified stare, and crashed through the high, 
dense undergrowth at the side of the road. The 
sounds of his flight grew fainter as he plunged deeper 
into the jungle. 

Trent stared at the spot where he disappeared. His 
first impulse was to follow — an impulse that he cast 
aside. Now that was odd, he thought. What in flam- 


68 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


ing hades was the matter with him? For a moment he 
sat in mystified silence, then he kicked his mount lightly 
in the flanks. 

A day of incidents. First, the despatch from Delhi, 
then the veiled woman, now this encounter. From 
where had the native come? The bungalow? Perhaps 
he was merely on his way from Meera, for the road 
passed his quarters. But he knew natives never 
walked when it was possible to ride. Anyhow, that 
didn’t explain his actions. Confound it, he’d have 
trouble with that fellow yet ! This as he branched off 
from the main highway and clattered along the drive- 
way to his compound. 

Not until he reached the gate did he observe that thfe 
house was dark, squatting in gloomy secrecy among the 
surrounding trees. At first it puzzled him ; then he de- 
cided that Manlove had probably gone to bed. 

When his mare was stabled, he made his way into the 
living-room. In the dark he struck his knee on a sharp 
projection and swore. He fumbled for the light-switch ; 
blinked in the sudden glare. A yawn and an indolent 
stretch. He ’d get a good sleep and — 

“Hello!” he exclaimed, as his eyes trailed across the 
room to an over-turned chair. “What the devil!” 

A piece of bronze, some Hindu god, lay on the floor, 
gleaming sinisterly, and a picture — its regular place 
was on the desk — had fallen to the floor. An insidi- 
ous thought took root in his brain. With quick 
strides he reached Manlove ’s room. It was empty, the 
bed unused. Its desertion hurt him — a queer sensation, 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


69 


that. He whirled about, returned to the living-room 
and halted, irresolute. 

“Manlove !” 

Silly to call, he thought. Perhaps Manlove had gone 
to the lawn party. But the overturned chair and the 
idol did not look well. Thieves? Or. . . . Suddenly 
the meeting with C.hatterjee shaped into significance. 
He knew the workings of the native brain, and a 
frightful possibility suggested itself. 

An electric torch lay on the table. He reached for 
it ; stood with his hands poised in the air, thought tem- 
porarily suspended from action. For his eyes, lowered 
involuntarily, fastened upon a small, dark spot on the 
matting. 

Regaining the power to move, he stooped. A sudden 
sickness seized him. Unmistakable. But why did 
blood affect him? Blood. The discovery added a 
spark to his suspicions. His imagination painted a 
swift, vivid picture. The look of terror on Chatterjee’s 
face. . . . Manlove, the innocent. . . . But no! It 
could n ’t be ! 

In possession of the torchlight, he strode out upon 
the veranda. There he discovered a trail of spots iden- 
tical with that on the matting, a trail that led down the 
steps. He made a quick search of the compound. A 
sense of helplessness smote him. Manlove, perhaps 
somewhere within calling distance, yet unable to sum- 
mon him. . . . 

He halted at the gate. On the left was jungle, dark 
and hushed; on the right, a few lights in the nearest 


70 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


bungalow. Across the road was the mouth of a nar- 
row path which he knew led to the ruins of an old 
temple hidden behind the rank foliage. At thought of 
the ruins an impulse made him forsake the compound 
and follow the path. 

Less than two hundred yards from the road the 
growths thinned. Looming before him, spectral in the 
yellow mystery of the moonlight, was the temple. The 
outer court was throttled with weeds. Luxurious vines 
trailed from ruined pillar to ruined wall and wove a 
sanctuary for vipers. At the end of an avenue of 
crumbled columns gaped the black entrance of the inner 
court. An impalpable vapor steamed up from the moist 
plants and bathed the ruins in a dream-like haze, as the 
blurred waters of the ocean engulf and make fantastic 
the myriad rock-palaces of the sea-bottoms. 

The dark inner court challenged Trent, and he 
snapped off the light and moved between the stone sen- 
tinels. A power, terrifying in its vagueness, pressed 
upon him, locking his muscles in a tension. A bat, 
startled out of hiding by the ring of his footsteps, 
flapped up from the parapet and wheeled across the 
moon’s face. But for that, and an occasional rasp of 
an insect, the temple was swathed in a hush. 

In the doorway of the inner court he paused. He 
groped for the shattered frame; clutched something 
tangible; fought against a terrible paralysis. 

Yellow moonshine poured through a rent in the ceil- 
ing, drenched the walls and formed a honey-hued pool 
on the flagging. 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


71 


In the wan light lay a human form. 

A deadly inertia coiled about Trent ’s brain and body. 
For a moment he was unable to think, to do other than 
struggle against the constricting coils of horror. But 
at length he broke the rigor. A few steps brought him 
to the pool of moonlight. He knelt ; switched on the 
torch; saw the face. Dull agony spread from his 
throat to his limbs. In that instant he seemed to slip 
back through a millenium and endure the concentrated 
pains of a hundred bodies — a flame of cosmic an- 
guish burning down through the dim jungles of 
time. 

Automatically his hand went to the heart, but be- 
fore his trained fingers touched the breast he knew that 
to feel was useless. Dark moisture stained the tunic- 
front. He unbuttoned the garments. Knife wound! 
Manlove had been dead at least a half hour. 

The infinitesimal fraction of a minute that he knelt 
there might have been an hour for the multitude of ir- 
relevances that sped through his brain. Orders. 
Benares. . . . And he had cursed when he struck his 
knee ! Had Manlove ridden with him to Colonel 
Urqhart’s this would not have happened. Urqhart; 

what an absurd name Murder. In a vague 

manner he wondered who had done it ; in a vague man- 
lier he felt angry. Dead. Impossible. This must be 
a dream, a horrid nightmare. Damn these nightmares ! 
It was the heat .... heat. . . . His comrade. . . . 
Kasvin. . . . Kut-el-Amara. And this was the end! 
The futility of things swept him, a chill and shudder- 


72 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


some tide that served to wash some of the tangles from 
his thoughts. 

He rose. He felt giddy, and the inner court, with its 
shadows, its pool of moonshine, swam in a throat-grip- 
ping vertigo. But it passed swiftly. Out of the men- 
tal chaos emerged a coherency: perhaps the one who 
had done this was still in or about the temple. The 
remembrance of Chatterjee immediately appeared to 
deny it. A solution of the affair unreeled quickly. 
Chatterjee, the avenger .... a fatal mistake. That 
explained the native’s look of terror when he met 
Trent on the road, explained his flight. 

Nevertheless, Trent made a search of the ruins and 
returned to the body. The face, outlined boyishly in 
the pallid moonlight, commanded his gaze with hyp- 
notic insistence. Now that the first acute horror had 
dwindled, he was conscious of an abysmal loneliness, 
an ache that habited every nerve and fiber of his being. 

He must notify Colonel Urqhart. But the body, 
what of that? He couldn’t leave it lying in this den 
of vipers. The very suggestion horrified him, although 
he knew the body was but a husk of flesh. He had some 
authority; he ’d act on his own responsibility. 

An involuntary dread ran through him as he slipped 
his hands under the inert form and lifted it. His sight 
blurred, but he moved with a steady stride across the 
courtyard and through the gate. Upon reaching the 
bungalow, he laid the body upon the bed in Manlove’s 
room. When he switched on the light, the boyish fea- 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


73 


tures again compelled his gaze. Manlove had told him 
of the dream of “Gray Towers,” of the House of 
Lords; and the memory of it, returning through the 
stupefaction that still surrounded him, sent a poignant 
charge into his throat. To have his dream perish like 
this! Whatever a man’s philosophy of immortality, 
death remains a shock. 

He was about to leave the room when his attention 
was arrested by the gleam of a bright object in the life- 
less hand. He was forced to pry open the fingers. 
The gleaming thing proved to be a piece of reddish 
stone. Coral. It was oval-shaped and some six inches 
in circumference. An intricate design was overlaid in 
silver upon the smooth salmon-hued surface — a human 
figure. The oval was edged with silver, and at the top 
was a tiny clasp. The clasp was broken. He studied 
the silver design. It was evidently some sort of deity, 
but different from any he had ever seen — an ugly little 
god with three eyes. 

What was it? he wondered — part of a necklace, an 
ornament? The broken clasp testified that it had been 
wrenched from its fastening. Perhaps in a struggle — 
the struggle. . . . 

Temporarily dismissing it from his thoughts, he left 
it lying upon the table and went to the telephone. 

4 

Meanwhile, at the dak bungalow, which looks out 
upon the main street of Sahib ? s Gaya, the khansammah, 


74 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


a ghostly figure in his white garments, sat on the 
covered portico and watched a gharry approach in a 
whirl of dust. 

The carriage was jerked to a halt at the compound, 
and from its dim interior appeared a form. 

It was the strange Memsahib, the khansammah ob- 
served to himself. 

Strange, indeed, he reflected ; Memsahibs rarely wore 
veils, and those they affected were gossamer, cobweb-like 
affairs that hid not a feature. But this Memsahib wore 
an almost opaque veil, a veil which she lifted only to eat 
and when in her room. She had a beautiful face, 
and well that she covered it from befouling eyes. For 
the khansammah was a Mohammedan. 

She was very generous, this Memsahib, oh, very gen- 
erous, indeed! True, she asked many questions — about 
Major Trent Sahib and his friend, the other Dakktar 
Sahib — but she paid for the information. She had 
been at the dak bungalow only since morning, and he 
hoped she would remain longer. Business was none too 
good. 

Thus ran his thoughts as the woman alighted from 
the gharry and crossed the compound. 

When she reached the steps he rose and rendered a 
salaam. As usual, her veil was lowered. He sensed 
a repressed excitement in the manner that her white 
hand closed upon the post of the veranda; a bracelet 
shone softly on her arm. 

“Khansammah,” she began, in a low, vibrant voice 
that made him think of the golden tongue of a certain 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


75 


singing-nautch he had once heard, “When does the 
next train leave for Mughal Sarai? Do you know?” 

‘ ‘ Hah, Memsahib ! ’ ’■ — with regret. ‘ ‘ Must you leave ? 
“Has not my hospitalitee been all the Memsahib could 

7 7 

“Of course,” she broke in, impatiently. “But the 
train ? ’ ’ 

“At midnight, Memsahib. But it is unliked the 
Memsahib can get accommodations, for there is veree 
much travel at this time of the year — oh, vevee much!” 

“At midnight,” she repeated, as though she had 
heard only that. 

Then she entered — and the khansammah thought he 
saw her pause, falter, as with a sudden stroke of weak- 
ness. 


5 

And again meanwhile — 

The moon paled, sank. Its senescent glamour lingered 
upon the towering plinth and fluted pillars of the 
temple of the 'Sacred Bo-tree, seven miles' south of 
Gaya-town. A warm wind fretted the tapering leaves 
of the holy tree; the sunken courtyard was a cistern 
of gloom where tiny yellow lights swam like foam-flecks 
on a dark sea. These flecks of light, forming a semi- 
circle about the Sacred Bo-tree, were many little butter- 
lamps. Their glow revealed a man seated on the Dia- 
mond Throne (just as Gaudama sat on the same spot 
in a buried century and contemplated his Dewa Laka) ; 
revealed his yellow features, his tonsured skull and 


76 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


magenta robes; revealed the stone image of Buddha 
that looked down from the shrine with an expression 
of serene omniscience; revealed the row of crimson- 
togaed monks that knelt within the semi-circle of butter- 
lamps and murmured prayers. 

The man on the Diamond Throne sat motionless. 
Only his lips moved, and his eyes. A hint of guile 
showed in his face. He repeated a mantra automatic- 
ally, for his thoughts were elsewhere. 

This was no other than his Holiness the Grand Lama 
of Tsagan-dhuka, who had pilgrimaged from his Tibetan 
abby to the Sacred Bo-tree — the first journey of the 
sort to be made by a lama of high rank since the visit 
of that venerable pontiff, the Tashi Lama. . . . Behold 
him, then, in the magenta robes of his office, squatting 
upon the Diamond Throne, reciting a Buddhist prayer. 

The patter of bare feet on stone caused him to shift 
his gaze to the gloom beyond the courtyard. His black 
eyes squinted, and he traced the outline of a palan- 
quin. The primitive conveyance came to a halt. A 
figure in loose robes took shape between the parted 
curtains; the light of the butter-lamps fell upon a man 
in scarlet, a man who descended into the sunken court- 
yard and approached the Diamond Throne. No mere 
priest, this newcomer, for he wore a mitre-shaped hat; 
a very obese, very pompous personage as he waddled 
up to his Holiness of Tsagan-dhuka. 

The crimson cardinal spoke; and had anyone who 
understood Tibetan been standing close by, he would 
have heard: 


A PIECE OF CORAL 77 

“His Excellency the Governor of Shingtse-lunpo has 
arrived. ’ ’ 

The Grand Lama ceased his mantra. 

“Tell him I shall be with him when I have finished 
my reflections.” 

The cardinal bowed and took his leave. The cur- 
tains of the palanquin blotted out his corpulent person. 
Again the patter of naked feet sounded above the 
surreptitious whispering of the Bo-tree. 

A cryptic smile slid across the Grand Lama’s eyes; 
the lids dropped to hide it. He resumed the prayer. 

“Ora mani Padme hum. . . .” 

Thus he sat — just as Gaudama sat on the same spot 
in a buried century. However, the Abbot of Tsagan- 
dhuka was not contemplating his Dewa Laka. 

Above him the plinth of the temple strove skyward, 
secure in the knowledge of the riddle of Life and Death. 

6 

A half hour after Trent took the receiver from the 
telephone, Colonel Urqhart and Merriton, Head of the 
Police, rattled into his compound in a dog-cart. Ac- 
companying them were several officers to whom Trent 
spoke by name. 

“. . . . And you found him in the ruined temple!” 
exclaimed the colonel, in the living-room, when the 
customary formalities had been observed. “Good God, 
major, what a pity! The poor, poor boy! His father 
and I were friends, y’know.” 

“I ’m positive Chatterjee did it,” declared Trent. 


78 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“You see. . . .” And he told of, the encounter on 
the road and the subsequent events. 

“What were you saying, major ?” asked the Head of 
the Police, coming out of the bedroom just as he finished. 
“But first — what ’s this?” 

He held out the oval of silver-overlaid coral, and 
Trent explained how he had found it. 

“Some sort of native charm, I dare say,” observed 
Merriton. “Tell me about this Chatterjee.” 

When Trent had retold his story, the Head of the 
Police enquired : 

‘ 1 Where ’s the telephone ? Ah ! I see it ! ” 

It was nearly midnight when Colonel Urqhart 
and Merriton prepared to leave. 

“Major,” said Trent’s commanding officer, “you ’d 
better get some sleep. Eckard and Gerrish will re- 
main to — ” 

“Sleep?” echoed Trent. 

“You ’ll need it if you ’re going in the morning — and 
you are going? Orders, y’know. There’s nothing 
you can do here. I ’ll personally attend to everything.” 

“Of course I ’ll go.” This from Trent as he passed 
his hand wearily over his forehead. “However, I shall 
sit up to-night. Eckard and Gerrish can remain — but 
I ’d rather be alone.” 

The colonel cast a glance toward Manlove’s room. 

“Poor chap!” he sighed. He extended his hand. 
“Well, good luck, major. I probably won’t see you 
again before you leave.” 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


79 


They shook hands, and the colonel and Merriton de- 
parted. Not until the sounds of the dog-cart had 
dwindled did Trent discover that the Head of Police 
had left the piece of coral on the table. His first im- 
pulse was to call after him, but he decided to give it to 
him later, and dropped it into his pocket. 

Through the seemingly endless night Trent kept 
vigil beside the curtained bed where Manlove lay. He 
sat huddled in a chair, his face expressionless; fre- 
quently he rose to pace the floor; on several occasions 
one of the men in the next room heard him murmuring 
to himself. Shortly after midnight (about the time the 
veiled Memsahib ’s train roared out of Gaya toward 
Mughal Sarai) it began to rain. That was the prelude 
to a storm that crashed and tore in a fury about the 
bungalow. In the dead silence following, when the 
damp heat shut in and stars sparkled in the rain- 
swept sky, jackals chattered mournfully in the 
jungle. 

The last stars passed and the earth awoke in a 
bath of gold. Ganeesh, with a frightened, awed ex- 
pression, crept in hesitatingly with tea, and behind 
him came one of the officers. 

“I ’ll have to get ready to leave now, Eckard,” Trent 
said laconically to the officer, when he had gulped down 
the hot liquid. 

Twenty minutes later, washed and shaved, he came 
out of his bedroom and found Colonel Urqhart wait- 
ing for him. 

“Just came by to tell you Merriton hasn’t found 


80 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Chatter jee yet/’ announced the colonel. 4 ‘Cleared out, 
it seems. But they ’ll get him.” 

“Uncommonly nice of you, Colonel,” returned Trent. 
His face was drawn, his eyes veined with red, and a 
pallor underlay his tanned skin. 

The colonel waved his hand toward the door. “My 
cart ’s outside. I ’ll drive you to the station. ’Bout 
time, isn’t it?” 

Trent nodded. He strode to the door of Manlove ’s 
room and halted on the threshold, looking with dry eyes 
into the hushed apartment. A diamond- winged dragon- 
fly lay dreaming on the window-sill .... the white 

face shone through the mosquito-curtain Thus 

Trent stood for a moment, then he turned and joined 
the colonel. 

He talked very little during the ride to the station, 
and Colonel Urqhart did not press conversation. In 
the midst of chattering native passengers and a few 
whites, with an engine puffing heat into the already 
suffocating air, he parted with the colonel, — a hand- 
shake and a few perfunctory words — and settled down 
in his carriage. 

Not until the train jerked out of the station did the 
strain snap. He relaxed wearily upon the leather-lined 
seat, a steady hammer of pain at the back of his neck. 
He felt suddenly alone, intensely alone — a sensation that 
carried him back to his boyhood, to a night when he 
awoke in a strange, black-dark room. He shuddered 
involuntarily. His eyelids burned. Sleep — sleep. The 
engine seemed to purr that one word, and the swaying 


A PIECE OF CORAL 


81 


and rocking of the carriage lulled him into drowsiness. 

He fell asleep, suddenly, with a picture of the hushed 
room — the diamond-winged dragonfly — painted upon 
his vision. 

7 

Trent was brought out of slumber by the sound of 
his name. He opened his eyes and perceived that 
the train was at a standstill. Heat pressed close 
about him, stifling him. Thrusting his head out of 
the window, he read the name of the station. He was 
but a short distance from Gaya. A telegraph messenger 
was walking along the platform shrilling: 

“Major-rr Tr-rent Sahib !” 

Trent called him, and as the train pulled out he tore 
open the envelope. 

“Chatterjee found in river this morning, ” the 
message ran. “Stabbed. Let you hear particulars at 
Benares. Urqhart. ’ ’ 

For some time after Trent read it he stared out of 
the carriage-window. Chatterjee — stabbed. He let the 
words filter and re-filter through his brain, let them 
settle and sink in. They gave a new significance to the 
encounter with the native on the previous night. Chat- 
terjee — stabbed. Murdered? Or had he taken his own 
life — in remorse? But the river. . . . No. Murdered. 
That word stood out like wet type. Chatterjee — stab- 
bed. Why? Obvious enough. The native’s look of 
fright explained that. Perhaps he knew who slew 
Manlove. Chatterjee, whose lips were sealed. Blind 


82 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


alley. He faced a wall behind which was hidden the 
identity of Manlove’s slayer. Manlove, who, to his 
knowledge, had n ’t an enemy — 

He stiffened at a sudden recollection; brought his 
fist down upon his thigh. Idiot ! Colossal idiot ! Why 
had not this occurred to him before ? It was fantastic, 
yet. . . . 

He procured from his pocket a pencil and an en- 
velope, and scribbled on the back of the latter — scrib- 
bled a description of the woman he had met on the 
Meera road; of the cobra-bracelet, of the encounter 
and his suspicions. This he would send to Colonel Urq- 
hart at the next station. 

When he had finished, he read it, struck out a few 
words; folded the envelope; returned it to his pocket, 
and settled back in the seat to reflect upon the tragic 
immutability of circumstance. 


CHAPTER IV 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 

T RENT, rested only by short naps on the way, 
stepped from the railway carriage in the Canton- 
ment Station, in Benares, and, after a ride past dusty 
red brick barracks, reached the hotel — a series of small 
houses, with one main building. To his disappointment 
he found no message from Colonel Urqhart. Nor was 
Euan Kerth there. Mr. Kerth had arrived, he was told, 
but was not in at present. Trent left word to be 
notified directly Kerth returned, and went to his room, 
in one of the out -buildings. 

Several hours later, refreshed by a sleep, washed and 
shaved, he seated himself on the portico to wait for 
Euan Kerth. On one end, peddlers were besieging a 
group of tourists; on the other, a girl with bronze- 
colored hair sat reading, a native in a flowered chintz 
coat drowsing at her feet. There was something slum- 
berous and torpid in the scene. India, like the world, 
relapsed into a lethargy after the tumult of war. 

When he slipped his hand into his tunic pocket for 
his cheroots, he found, instead of smokes, a hard, cold 
object. Withdrawing it, he recognized, not without 
some surprise, the oval of coral he had found in Man- 
love’s hand. He remembered that Merriton had left it 
on the table in his bungalow, and he had put it in his 
83 


84 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


pocket with the intention of returning it to the Head of 
Police before leaving Gaya. He would have to send it 
back, now that a new complication had arisen — namely, 
the death of Chatterjee ; it might prove a valuable clue. 

He studied it. Time had mellowed the design and 
smoothed the once-sharp edges of the silver that rimmed 
the oval. Coral, he knew, was rarely used for purposes 
of ornamentation in India. Too, the three-eyed deity, 
a hideous figure, puzzled him, though he was by no 
means unversed in the symbolism of the many religions 
of the land. Coral and silver. The combination haunted 
him, was linked with an illusive fragment in his memory. 
It came to him suddenly. Tibet. Coral and silver 
from Tibet. While he was stationed at Darjeeling he 
frequently saw men from Phari and Gyangste with 
coral and silver ornaments. 

He continued to stare at the oval. The ugly face of 
the three-eyed little god seemed to mock him ; challenged 
him to fathom the power that impelled these waves of 
mystery that lapped up and touched him, and receded 
with their secrets. It brought a vision, too, of the 
hushed room at Gaya. 

That was a hurt which only the ointment of time could 
heal. The tissues of human relationship mend slowly. 
His friendship for Manlove had taken seed deeply, in a 
measure unconsciously, nurtured by months of intimate 
companionship; and now his sensitive nature tingled 
and throbbed at the violence with which it had been 
wrenched from its roots. 

With the murder looming in his thoughts, his mission 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 


85 


shrank. Adventure ! Fabulous isles ! . . . . Queer how 
last night’s stars lose their fever and passion when they 
become a memory. But perhaps the work would dis- 
tract him. At least it was different, and in his present 
mental condition the very thought of medicines and 
human ills was intolerable. 

Shadows lengthened between the buildings; the 
peddlers and tourists disappeared; the bronze-haired 
girl had closed her book and lay back in the chair, star- 
ing into space. Upon her he unconsciously focussed his 
attention, and as he contemplated her, impersonally and 
as he would an inanimate object, she shifted her eyes to 
him, stared coolly, turned away, rose and entered her 
room. 

And Trent forgot her. 

A few minutes later, as he was at the point of making 
another inquiry about Euan Kerth, he saw a man leave 
the central building and move toward the portico where 
he sat — a man who approached and spoke his name. 

“Major Trent?” 

They shook hands. Kerth was an immaculately 
dressed fellow, with smooth, olive-tinted features. A 
rather Mephistophelian face. A small black mustache, 
carefully waxed, helped the suggestion. His hair was 
shiny-black, as w T ere his eyes, and his dark complexion 
was only emphasized by white twills and a white felt 
hat. His fingers were long and slim, almost too well- 
shaped to be masculine. Something very fine and sleek, 
Gallic rather than Anglo-Saxon — that was Euan Kerth. 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologized in a 


86 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


too-long-in-the-tropics drawl. “I’ve been with the 
Commissioner. Yon arrived this afternoon?” 

Trent nodded. He saw behind the assumed languor- 
ous air a keen, searching glance; Kerth was measuring 
him as he was measuring Kerth. He came to the tenta- 
tive decision that he wasn’t quite sure he liked him. 

“Sit down, won’t you?” — perfunctorily. 

Kerth dropped with lazy grace into a chair and sat 
with his legs sprawled wide apart. He proffered some 
of the blackest cheroots Trent had ever seen. 

“My Tamils,” he explained, with an indolent smile. 
When the smokes were lighted, he asked: “Just how 
much do you know of this little party we ’re about to 
start, major?” 

“As little as possible, I think.” 

Kerth puffed on his cheroot. “Ever heard of this 
woman who styles herself the Swaying Cobra?” 

“Never.” 

“Neither have I.” A pause. “Of course you ’ve 
heard of Chavigny?” 

Trent’s answer was a smile. 

“We almost got him the other day, in Delhi. We 
traced him to a native serai — Queen’s Serai; but he 
eluded us. Left only a few blood-stains on the floor of 
his room. Blood-stains sometimes tell a lot, but they 
did n ’t in this instance. But Chavigny ’s bottled up in 
Delhi. Yet” — Kerth smiled — “yet I wouldn’t be at 
all surprised if he pulled the wool over the Depart- 
ment’s eyes. Of course you think he’s involved in this 
affair?” 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 


87 


Trent's eyes followed tlie spiral of smoke from his 
cheroot. 

‘ ‘He might be," was the slow reply, “and, again, he 
might not. What does Sir Francis think ? ’ 9 

A wry smile. “He rarely confides in the Depart- 
ment. At any rate, I don’t fancy we 11 encounter this 
Chavigny. You know he ’s been running at large under 
the name of Leroux — Gilbert Leroux. Remember that; 
might be useful some time. If you want my opinion — 
But I ’m sure you don’t. Now, as for this Swaying 
Cobra — ’’ 

But he was interrupted as a porter appeared and 
salaamed. 

“Major Trent Sahib?’’ he enquired. 

Trent nodded and received an envelope with his name 
written upon it. 

“Pardon me’’ — this to Kerth as he tore off the end. 

The missive was written in English, in feminine hand- 
writing, and carried a faint, illusive odor — that of 
sandalwood. 

GREETINGS ! 

I, the Swaying Cobra, welcome you to the Sacred City 
and beg the honor of a visit from you to-night. If you will 
be at the shop of Abdul Kerim, in the Sadar Bazaar, at 
eight-thirty o’clock, my trusted servant, Chandra Lai, will 
meet you and conduct you to my humble dwelling. 

Your faithful servant, 

THE SWAYING COBRA 

When he had read it, he handed it to Kerth, who let 
his eyes run down the page and smiled. 


88 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


‘ 4 Suppose we move to the dining-hall? ’ ’ the latter 
suggested. “I ’ll finish what I have to say there.” 

Trent assented, and they rose and left the veranda. 

As the purple-tongued shadows lapped them up, the 
last of the row of doors opened, and the girl with the 
bronze hair came out and moved after them toward 
the dining-hall. 

2 

“In other words,” said Kerth, as a soft-shod 
“boy” arrayed the meal before them, “you are to 
deliver yourself blindfolded into the hands of this 
Swaying Cobra, and if she says go to the moon, then, 
according to the Old Man, you ’re to go there, without 
questioning. ’ ’ 

Trent listened, apparently abstractedly, for he was 
studying the amazingly clear profile of the girl at the 
next table. Punkahs, worked by electricity, disturbed 
straying tendrils of reddish-gold hair. 

“The woman mystifies me as much as the affair it- 
self,” Kerth went on. “Who is she? It ’s evident the 
Old Man trusts her — to a degree. Prom her name, 
‘Swaying Cobra,’ I’d judge she’s a nautch, yet, on the 
other hand, I ’m inclined to think she ’s above that. 
Fact is, the Old Man was too infernally secretive about 
her; seemed afraid he ’d tell me something. However, 
he isn’t absolutely sure of her. If he was, I wouldn’t 
be here. ’ ’ 

A tourist, was Trent’s conclusion. (For he was still 
studying the girl.) She choked over the greasy, pep- 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 


89 


pery curry concoction. A moment later her soft voice 
floated to him as she spoke to her “boy.” 

“Confound him! Is he listening to me?” Kerth 
wondered. Then aloud, “My part is this: I’m to rig 
myself up as a native — a Rajput — and accompany you 
as your servant. My name will be Rawul Din.” 

Trent’s eyes turned sharply from the girl to Kerth. 
He noticed, incidentally, that the latter’s hair would 
need no lamp-black to make it like a native’s. 

“Suppose she objects?” 

Kerth smiled — an expression that was almost sinister 
because of his dark, satanic features. 

“That ’s the point: she must not object!” After a 
pause he resumed: “The Old Man wanted that firmly 
impressed. In some way or other she must be forced to 
agree to that condition. You ’re the diplomat of this 
expedition ; that means it ’s up to you. So said the 
Old Man. I ’m to be the connecting link between you 
and the Department.” 

“Is that keeping faith with her?” 

“According to the letter of the contract, yes; morally, 
no. As I understand it, she demanded your word of 
honor you wouldn’t ‘communicate’ any information. 
Therefore, you must not; what I don’t hear and learn 
for myself is the Department’s loss. Neat way of 
beating the devil around the bush, is n ’t it ? ” 

It was not visible upon Trent’s face whether or not 
he agreed with Kerth. However, his next question 
hinted negatively. 


90 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“If she discovers you ’re not Rawul Din, the Rajput, 
what then?” 

Kerth shrugged. “Adrushtam!” he said, which 
means, “It is Fate!” Then he lighted a cheroot and 
leaned upon his elbows, a queer smile lurking in the 
corners of his mouth. “It means this, major,” he con- 
tinued. “If she ’s loyal, as the Old Man believes, she 
will either be very angry and throw over the whole 
business, or overlook it and simply demand that espion- 
age be discontinued. But” — his face, veiled by smoke, 
looked more satanic than ever — “if she isn’t loyal, 
then — well, we ’ll both probably. . . He finished 
with a lift of his eyebrows. 

Trent watched the bronze-haired girl as she left the 
dining-hall — as did others, for she was a type to draw 
eyes. 

“To-night’s the test,” Kerth observed aloud. “If 
you succeed in forcing your point, good. Otherwise, 
I return to Delhi.” He looked at his watch. “It ’s 
close to seven now, and my metamorphosis will require 
some time. Shall we adjourn?” 

They did. 


3 

Before Trent left his room he placed the oval of 
coral in his handbag; then he w r ent out on the portico 
to smoke and watch the stars gather about the cleaving 
silhouette of a church steeple across from the hotel 
grounds. 

At one end of the veranda two shadowy forms were 


HOUSE OP THE SWAYING COBRA 


91 


conversing ; a woman ’s voice drifted to him, a soft voice 
that slurred and caressed the words it spoke. It was 
vaguely familiar, and in a detached manner he identi- 
fied it with the girl of the dining-hall. 

The phosphorescent hands of his wrist-watch crept 
to five minutes to eight before Euan Kerth put in his 
appearance. A heavy footstep announced a turbaned 
man. He halted in the light cast from a window; 
executed a salaam. He wore white breeches, an al- 
paca coat and a white shawl. A huge turban shadowed 
a brown face and a carefully waxed mustache. Had 
it not been for that and the slim hands, Trent would 
not have recognized him. 

“Salaam, Huzoor 1” was his greeting. “Is the 
Huzoor ready ? ’ ’ — this in the manner of a native trying 
to affect an Oxford accent. 

Trent nodded and rose, and Kerth fell in behind. 

“There ’s no need to take a gharry/’ said Kerth. 
“The Sadar Bazaar isn’t far.” 

Their walk led them past the dusty red brick bar- 
racks that Trent had seen that afternoon, and within 
a short while they reached the Sadar Bazaar, where, 
after many inquiries, they were directed to the shop 
of Abdul Kerim — a dingy little hole in a narrow lane. 
A native was lounging in the doorway, but at their 
approach he straightened up and salaamed. 

“Major Trent Sahib?” he queried respectfully, with 
a grin that displayed betel-stained teeth. “Iam Chan- 
dra Lai.” Then he looked inquisitively at Kerth. 
“Who is this, Sahib?” 


92 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“My servant.” 

Chandra Lai shook his head. “I was instructed to 
bring only Major Trent Sahib.” 

“But it is my wish that my bearer accompany me.” 

The native shifted uncomfortably. 1 1 The sahib ’s 
wish is law; yet if I do other than I have been bidden 
I will be a disobedient servant.” Another glimpse of 
scarlet teeth; a rather nervous smile. “So what shall 
I do, Sahib?” 

“My man shall go — maloom hai!” — sternly. “I will 
be responsible to your mistress.” 

Chandra Lai saluted. “Achcha, Sahib! I have a 
carriage in the street!” 

At the mouth of the lane a landau was waiting, 
and when Trent and Kerth were seated on cushioned 
springs, Chandra Lai flicked his whip. 

Out of the Cantonment they were whirled, and east- 
ward into the old city, where constricted streets refused 
passage to any vehicle. They drew up by an oval- 
shaped, tree-grown expanse, and the landau was left in 
charge of a man who was waiting for that particular 
purpose. Then began a journey on foot that was 
memorable to the two Englishmen because of the mud- 
dle of dim, narrow highways into which it took them. 
Chandra Lai leading, they percolated through streets 
and passages that stank of every unpleasantness known 
to Indian cities; mere clefts where the stars swam at 
distances immeasurable ; stairs, tunneled lanes and 
alleys, and amidst ramshackle, tumbled buildings and 
temples and shrines. 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 


93 


Trent’s sense of direction was completely baffled when 
they came at length to a quarter where the houses were 
more pretentious — a long street of several-storied dwel- 
lings, of projecting eaves, of white walls and of latticed 
windows that hinted at the lurking mystery of zenana 
and harem. 

Into one of these houses the native guided them, up 
a short flight of stairs and into a dark room. The air 
was fresh and cool, fanned by invisible punkahs. A 
snap brought on electric lights, and Trent blinked 
about him; blinked and suppressed a smile, for he 
realized the entrance into the room while it was yet 
unlighted was done for purely dramatic effect. 

His eyes, roving around the chamber, missed not a 
detail; a chamber wholly amazing and incredible to 
the Westerner, who rarely, if ever, sees into the houses 
of the wealthy, high caste Hindus. Trent, however, (to 
whom India was an open book, as much as it ever will 
be to any white man) was only mildly surprised. The 
chandeliers were crystal, tinted amber by the yellow 
lights. Brassware and gold brocade (the latter hung 
to hide all doors except the one by which they had 
entered) introduced an effect of rich browns and richer 
golds; and a spire of incense uncoiled from a brazen 
bowl to be dispelled by punkahs and leave the heavy 
fragrance of musk swimming in the air. 

“My mistress will join you presently,” announced 
Chandra Lai. “Be seated, Sahib, and you will be 
served with refreshments!” 

Trent flung himself upon a divan pushed against the 


94 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


wall; silken cushions yielded to his weight and clung 
to him caressingly. Kerth dropped cross-legged at his 
feet. 

Before Chandra Lai made his exit he drew the gold- 
liued draperies opposite where Trent reclined, drew bam- 
boo blinds and disclosed a white arch that framed a 
portion of a garden. Stone steps sank into a court- 
yard where rustling shrubs wove shadows about a foun- 
tain; falling water played flute-notes on a tiled basin; 
stars scraped a white wall. 

“She ’s no novice, this cobra, ” thought Trent. 
“Wonder if she ’s anything like her lair?” 

“. . . . wine,” thought Kerth. “And we must drink 
it ... . unless — yes, guile for guile.” 

Suddenly, from behind gold curtains, came the faint 
whispering of music. Trent smothered an insurgent 
desire to laugh. Incongruity, the essence of India ! 
The music was made by a gramophone! Presently he 
recognized the tune — Tschaikowsky ’s “Serenade 
Melancholique” ! 

He glanced furtively at Kerth. The latter’s face was 
expressionless, his slim hands toying with the tassel of 
a cushion. Trent sensed in his attitude the same wild 
desire to laugh that possessed him. 

“Steady!” he mentally encouraged himself, fixing his 
gaze upon a piece of brassware close by — a lota overlaid 
with copper and chased with mythological figures. 
“Hmm. . . . Half as old as India, I ’ll wager,” ran his 
musings. “Siva — who the deuce is the other chap?” 

Gold brocades parted and a turbaned servant glided 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 


95 


out silently with a tray, which he placed on a pearl-in- 
laid table. Claret-hued wine glowed in twin beaten- 
brass goblets, rich as melted rubies. One he passed to 
Trent, the other to Kerth. Then he made a soundless 
departure. 

Inwardly, Trent smiled. And drained his goblet. 
The gramophone ceased ; only the music of the fountain 
stole to him, with a breath of fragrant shrubs that made 
the incense seem sensuous and heavy. 

Again the brass lota claimed his gaze ; held it until he 
heard a sigh from Kerth and looked down to see the 
latter’s eyelids droop, to see his eyes close and his chin 
sink into his white shawl. 

“Damn!” he swore, almost inaudibly, and his hand 
sprang to Kerth ’s shoulder and gripped it none too 
gently. “Rawul Din!” 

As he pronounced the name, Kerth fell against the 
cushions of the divan, drugged in sleep. Some one 
laughed — a laugh that rippled low in the throat. Trent 
did not look toward the sound immediately, although 
that was his first impulse. He let his eyes turn natu- 
rally and rest, at first incredulously, upon the woman 
who had entered and who stood regarding him with a 
mocking smile. The blood flooded his temples; after a 
second it receded, leaving him cold, numb, with a 
tingling sense of unreality. He did not rise; merely 
stared; and presently forced a smile. 

“Sarojini Nanjee,” he said, trying to put down the 
emotions that declared insurrection against his will. 
And he repeated, “Sarojini Nanjee, the Swaying 


96 CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

Cobra ?” He smiled. “I confess, I never once sus- 
pected/ ’ 

Outlined against the gold draperies she stood, dressed 
as nautehes dress, only with more richness and without 
the customary head-scarf. Her garments were full and 
as shimmery as cobwebs in the sun, and confined at the 
waist with a goldcloth girdle that matched the tint of 
her marvelously smooth skin. Her eyes burned under 
heavy lids, burned and mocked him ; and by their fever- 
ish brightness he understood that this meeting wrought 
in her an excitement equal to his, although she was pre- 
pared for it. 

“I did not intend that you should suspect,” she told 
him as she moved to the divan where he reclined. “I 
knew you would not come if you did.” 

Not until then did he rise. He smiled, and the smile 
lingered as she bent over Kerth and drew back the lids 
from his eyes. 

“Why did you disobey me by bringing this man?” 
she demanded, and, assured that Kerth was drugged, 
dropped gracefully upon the cushions. 

‘ ‘ Why did you drug him ? ” he countered. 

The blood still throbbed at his temples. The irony of 
it, that they should meet again ! And on this mission ! 
She was as beautiful as ever. But the lure of her 
eyes — eyes as purple as moist violets — of her smooth 
golden skin and lithe body, no longer affected him. All 
that was in the sepulcher of the past. A memory that 
was like the taste of stale wine upon the tongue. 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 97 


ll l put a sleeping powder in his wine because what I 
am going to say is for only your ears , 9 ’ she replied. 

“And you ’re called the Swaying Cobra,” he mused, 
more to himself than to the woman, “or did another 
write that note ? ’ 9 

“I am the Swaying Cobra.” A pause. She studied 
him from under half -lowered lids. “I dance for those 
I love. I have only venom for those I hate.” 

The Sw r aying Cobra! He almost laughed. That was 
a good symptom, that he could be amused. A pretty 
viper! Resolving to let her open the subject of his 
visit, he allowed his eyes to wander about the room. 

“Here I cease trying to be an Englishwoman,” she 
said, perceiving his inquisitive look. He did not fail to 
register the ring of bitterness beneath that assertion. 
“In Jehelumpore and in Delhi it is different, but 
here — here I am a Rajputni.” Another pause. She 
laughed, and it was not without a sting. “I know 
what you are thinking: that you will refuse to work 
with me because — because of a foolish Anglo-Saxon sen- 
timentalism ! 9 ’ 

She waited for him to respond; he did not. 

“But why not forget that we ever knew each other — 
and did we ever really know each other? Why not re- 
gard this as an impersonal affair? Individuals do not 
count where an empire is concerned.” 

Trent smiled discreetly and held his tongue. 

“I bear you no rancor,” she went on. “On the con- 
trary, I recognize and respect the qualities that 


98 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


prompted me to select you for this mission — imagina- 
tion, wits, honor ! Yes, for these things I chose you — for- 
getting that when we last saw each other it was not 
under the most pleasant circumstances. What is dead 
is dead.” 

She fell silent, and he spoke for the first time. 

“You ’ve anticipated,” he said. “I was sent here to 
work with you and I intend to. I ’ve already forgot 
that we ever met before to-night. What is dead is 
dead.” 

The woman smiled — but had she known what was in 
his mind at that moment she might not have been so 
pleased. However, she did not. And she lay back 
among the brocaded cushions, quite at ease, her hands 
clasped behind her head, chin tilted, eyes looking upon 
him as a cat’s eyes look upon the mouse it is about to 
play with. 

All of which did not pass unobserved by Trent, who 
pictured, instead of a woman lying upon the gold silks 
with her head lifted, a lithe, beautiful cobra with its 
black hood raised above the cushions ; pictured her thus, 
and returned her gaze with frankness and a smile that 
disarmed her. 

She clapped her hands and a servant brought wine. 
“Were you well informed as to the terms of the agree- 
ment?” she questioned, handing him a cup of claret - 
hued liquor. 

“I believe so.” 

“That when you leave this house you are no longer 
Major Arnold Trent, but another — a well of secrets 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 99 

from which no man can draw, and as mute as the 
Buddha at Sarnath?" 

He demonstrated that he could do so by remaining 
silent. She resumed: 

“And you will do as I direct ?" 

“To a reasonable extent/' he modified. 

“To a reasonable extent," she repeated, and nodded. 
“And if you do not understand a thing, you will trust 
to my judgment that it is better you do not understand 
it." 

‘ ‘ Then I ’m to deliver myself blindfolded ? " he put in, 
remembering Kerth’s words of the early evening and 
glancing involuntarily toward the drugged figure. 

“You will be told all that it is consistent to tell." 
She took a sip of wine and surveyed him. “What is 
your first question?" 

He thrust back the query that came to his tongue 
and reverted to his conservative tactics. He sat as 
mute and expressionless as the Buddha at Sarnath. 
When a moment had passed, she announced : 

“You would like to know how I know what I know 
about the jewels; is it not so?" 

“I would like to know what you know first," he cor- 
rected. 

She laughed — that laugh that rippled low in her 
throat. 

“What I know is locked away safely until the time is 
ripe to bring it forth. Meanwhile, I will say this much : 
the jewels have not left India." 

“Then they will V ’ 


100 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


He flashed out the question with the air of a fencer 
thrusting at a weak point in his opponent’s guard. But 
foil met foil. She replied: 

4 ‘Did I say so, 0 wise one? Again your thoughts are 
as clear as a crystal pool. You say to yourself, ‘Such a 
hoard of jewels cannot be smuggled out of India; she 
is trying to confuse me. ’ But nay ! The gods of India 
are many and I swear by all of them that every gem 
that was stolen, down to the last pearl, can be spirited 
out of India at any moment it is so desired — and under 
the very eyes, nay, the protection, of your Secret Ser- 
vice ! ’ ’ 

If this statement surprised him, his face did not be- 
tray it; he disconcerted her by looking interestedly at 
the brass lota. His indifference drew fire. 

“I said it could be done!” she declared. “Whether 
it will be is for you to learn. Oh, you do not deceive 
me! I know you are consumed with curiosity, under 
that shell of yours! Your Raj, well fed and growing 
fat with wisdom, thinks it has a clue. Chavigny ! The 
Raj thinks Chavigny is involved!” 

She leaned closer ; peered intently into his eyes. 
The illusive fragrance of sandalwood from her hair 
was not calculated to make him feel any more at ease. 
But he did not stir nor wink an eyelid under the close 
scrutiny. 

“Chavigny!” she mocked. “Chavigny, the famous 
thief! Chavigny, whom some silly Secret Service man 
tracked to Indore — and lost! Chavigny, driven into 
hiding in Delhi ! Pah ! Let the Raj search for Cha- 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 101 


vigny, let it turn Delhi inside out — while we look on 
and laugh! You — you have imagination! I can guess 
what is in your mind, for I, too, have imagination! 
You have pictured a gigantic criminal organization — a 
gem syndicate, let us say — a flock of jewel vultures who 
have swooped down and plucked clean the hones of the 
empire! And perhaps you even think Chavigny the 
leader, yes?” 

She smiled, quite pleased with herself. Then once 
more she leaned close to him. 

“What would you think if I told you there is such a 
band — an order, we will call it — of jewel vultures who 
have flown away with riches worth a dozen rajah’s ran- 
soms? What would you think? Only” — she paused 
dramatically — “we will omit Chavigny, for if there be 
such an order he is not its head nor in it!” 

He drew out his cheroots; passed them to her. She 
refused, and he lighted a cigarette and flicked the match 
through the archway. Then he suggested: 

“Aren’t all cards to go on the table?” 

She smiled wisely. “No, I can play them more effec- 
tively one by one,” was her retort. 

His brain was working swiftly yet carefully. When 
he had selected his words he uttered them. 

“Presuming there is such an order, as you call it, 
we’ll go further and say that you, by some unguessable 
means, have become a member; and are working with 
them for the Raj.” 

She looked her approval. “Presumably” — with a 
nod. That word was a key to further knowledge. 


102 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Then it would seem logical, if I ’m to work with you, 
for me to be initiated into the mysteries of this order — 
become a member, in other words.’ ’ 

“Go on,” she encouraged. 

“So the purpose of this visit, I take it, is for me to 
learn the ‘Open Sesame’ of the order.” 

And having said that much, he realized it was suffi- 
cient and relapsed into quiet to let her do the rest of 
the talking. 

“You have already proved that I chose well,” she 
announced. “But before I go on you must give me 
your word of honor that all I have said and will say, 
all that occurs until I release you from the promise, will 
never be repeated — by word or writing.” 

“I give it,” he returned quietly. 

She leaned over and deftly drew back the lids from 
Kerth’s eyes; Trent caught a fleeting glimpse of the 
whites. 

“To-morrow you leave Benares,” she directed, again 
assured. “You will take a train in the morning for 
Bombay and go to an address which I shall give you; 
and do as I instruct.” Her hand slipped under her 
waist and brought out a long blank envelope. ‘ ‘ In this 
envelope are your instructions. I must have your 
promise not to read them until you are on the train to 
Bombay; then destroy them immediately.” 

He inclined his head and placed the envelope in his 
pocket. 

“You said that when I leave this house I am no longer 
Major Trent,” he reminded. 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 103 


“You are Robert Tavernake, a jeweller, from Lon- 
don. All that is contained in the instructions. ’ ’ 

“Including the name of the order?” — his curiosity 
escaping him. 

For answer she clapped her hands and curtains parted 
to admit a servant with a black lacquer tray. From 
the tray she lifted a small box ; opened it as the servant 
padded out. 

“This is the symbol of the order” — removing a string 
of beads. 

Had Trent felt any hesitancy about plunging into this 
blind mission it would have vanished at sight of the 
beads — reddish coral beads, with an oval-shaped pen- 
dant overlaid with the silver image of a three-eyed god ! 
The only emotion he displayed was to moisten his lips; 
but it required all the force he could marshal to check 
the questions that flooded to his tongue, to mask his sur- 
prise and reach with a steady hand for the beads. De- 
spite his control, it seemed for a momnt that he would 
betray his nervousness. 

“. . . . the Order of the Falcon,” he heard her say. 
“See — ” She inserted her fingernail under the silver 
band that finished the coral; the pendant opened, like 
a locket. The interior was silver and a name was en- 
graved upon the back — “Robert Tavernake.” 

She snapped the oval shut and he took the beads; 
twisted them carelessly around his fingers, until the 
deep reddish coral seemed like huge drops of blood 
welling from his hand. As he caught the significance 
of the illusion, he looked up quickly and spoke. 


104 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


4 ‘Am I to carry these ?” 

She nodded. 

His thoughts swung back to the oval that lay in his 
handbag at the hotel. 

“Is it customary to have the name engraved — like 
this?” — with a gesture. 

After the words left his mouth he realized he had 
made an indiscreet move. She looked at him suspi- 
ciously, then answered: 

“Customary, yes — among those who possess such 
beads.” 

He did not fail to grasp the insinuation that her 
speech bore. He glanced down at the beads in his 
hand, casually enough; toyed with them; slipped them 
into his pocket. His heart had not resumed its normal 
beat, but the tension had eased. He fastened his eyes 
upon the relaxed figure of Kerth and — 

“It will be permissible, I presume,” he began, as 
though the sight of the turbaned head suggested the 
question, “to take my bearer along?” 

Did a smile flicker across her eyes, he wondered, or 
was it only his fancy? The answer came decisively. 

“It is scarcely practicable.” 

“Why?” — a shade too artlessly. 

“Servants have eyes to see and ears to hear.” 

Something in her tone caused him to wonder if she 
had penetrated under Kerth ’s masquerade. All the 
while he was subconsciously thinking of the mate to the 
oval in his pocket. 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 105 

‘ ‘ What harm in taking him to Bombay ? ’ ’ he pursued, 
conscious that he was losing ground. 

Again he could have taken oath that he saw the 
shadow of a smile in her eyes. 

“To Bombay?” she repeated thoughtfully. “No” — 
slowly — “no, I see no objection. I concede that.” 
But he did not like the manner in which she said it. 

4 * Conditionally, however, ’ ’ she added. ‘ ‘ He must 
leave to-night. When he reaches Bombay let him re- 
serve a room for you at the Taj Mahal — and wait.” 

Trent was discreet enough to accept her terms with- 
out question. His eyes returned to Kerth. He saw him 
stir slightly, heard a sigh leave his lips. The woman, 
too, saw and heard. 

“He is awakening,” she observed. “I shall summon 
Chandra Lai to guide you back to your hotel.” 

Again she clapped her hands; again the servant ap- 
peared. Sha spoke to him swiftly, not in English nor 
Hindustani, but in a tongue Trent did not understand, 
and the man vanished with a salaam,. 

Sarojini rose; Trent, too, got up. 

“Salaam, Burra Dakktar,” she said, lapsing into Hin- 
dustani and bringing the visit to an end. ‘ ‘ I, the Sway- 
ing Cobra — who dance for those I love, but have only 
venom for those I hate — bid thee farewell until the gods 
bring us together again. And may that be soon!” 

She smiled and contemplated him, once more as a 
cat contemplating prey; smiled with eyes that spoke 
mockery as she suffered him to salute her fingers; and 


106 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


the last picture he had of her was as she crossed the 
golden room and parted the golden curtains, vanishing 
like a cobra into its lair. 

He turned then to Kerth and shook him. The latter 
was slow to awaken. Lids lifted to reveal rheumy eyes, 
but as he recognized Trent sleep was wiped away, like a 
cobweb. His gaze swept the room; he rose unsteadily. 

“I am ready, Sahib !” announced Chandra Lai, ap- 
pearing in the doorway. 

Kerth opened his mouth, as if to speak ; shut it ; shot 
Trent a cryptic glance. 

“Come.” This from Trent, laconically. 

Thus they left the house of the Swaying Cobra, left 
it with its vain, old-world atmosphere and its golden 
room ; re-traversed the labyrinth of streets ; got into the 
landau; whirled toward the Cantonment. 

4 

Not until they reached the hotel, until Chandra Lai 
flicked his whip and rolled away into the gloom, did 
either of the Englishmen speak. 

“So you Ve known her before!” observed Kerth as 
they approached Trent’s room. 

Trent said, without surprise: “You heard?” 

“Everything. ... I 11 drop over and find out about 
the Bombay trains; join you in a moment.” 

As Kerth moved toward the central building, Trent 
unlocked the door. After he switched on the light, his 
first act was to open his bag and insert his hand into 
the pocket where he had left the piece of coral. His 


HOUSE OP THE SWAYING COBRA 107 


fingers trembled, for he felt that he was questioning for 
the identity of Manlove ’s slayer ; trembled — and groped 
in an empty pocket. 

For several seconds he stood motionless, trying to 
adjust himself to the situation. When he came into 
full sentience, he looked carefully through the bag. He 
even searched his pockets. But the oval was not to be 
found. . . Some one had entered his room; stolen it. 
The realization burned like acid into his brain. But 
if — 

His mental inquest was cut short as a knock an- 
nounced Kerth. 

‘ ‘ Message for you, ’ ’ said the latter, extending a tele- 
gram. 

Trent hastily tore it open ; read : 

‘ 4 Party fitting description bought ticket for Mughal 
Sarai last night. Khansammah at dak bungalow says 
she asked questions about you and Manlove. Following 
up clue. Nothing new. Urqhart.” 

A sense of disappointment smote him. First Chat- 
ter jee ; then the oval ; now this ! A series of blind alleys. 

He applied a match to the telegram and watched it 
burn. 

“ Train leaves in an hour and a half/’ Kerth volun- 
teered, taking a seat and staring inquisitively at the 
ashes as they fluttered to the floor. 

“How M you suspect the wine?” Trent enquired, 
unbuttoning his tunic. 

“It ’s my business to suspect. I emptied the cup 
under the divan and, afterwards, expected any minute 


108 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


to see it seeping out. As it is, I ’m not sure she 
did n’t smell a mouse. Gad! The way she pulled back 
my eyelids!” 

Trent hung his tunic on a chair. “ Don’t object if I 
get comfortable, do you?” he asked. “ Rather done 
up ; awake all last night, you know. ’ ’ 

Kerth waved his slim hand. “Go ahead; I ’ll have 
to pack up shortly. ’ ’ Then, as Trent undressed ‘ This 
Sarojini, she’s a shrewd one, major, and I don’t envy 
you the task of matching blades with her. However, 
you gained a point on her to-night. I was rather sur- 
prised that she gave in so easily; not so sure, either, 
that there isn’t a trick in it.” He laughed easily. 
“Oh, I ’ll wager she has a bag of tricks! And do you 
think she was telling the truth when she said Chavigny 
has nothing to do with this Order of the Falcon?” 

Trent, stripped but for one garment, propped him- 
self against two pillows, pencil and pad in hand. 

“I ’m sure I don’t know,” he returned, making a no- 
tation. 1 1 Pardon me for taking a few notes ; ’f raid I ’ll 

forget ’em. No, don’t go About Chavigny: why 

should she say he isn’t, if he is?” 

‘ ‘ To confuse you. ’ ’ Kerth drew out a silver cigarette 
case. “Have a smoke? And what d’you suppose she 
meant by saying the jewels could be spirited out of 
India under the protection of the S. S. ?” Kerth 
searched from pocket to pocket for a match. “Have 
you a light, major?” 

Trent’s hand moved involuntarily to his side; then 
he motioned toward his tunic. 


HOUSE OP THE SWAYING COBRA 109 


“In the pocket/ ’ 

And he continued to write as Kerth reached into the 
pocket of his coat. He read the notes he had made: 

Who the deuce would want the pendant? Answer: if a 
name is engraved inside, it would be very valuable to the 
owner. Yet the fact that the coral was found in M.’s hand 
doesn’t prove conclusively that its owner is the murderer. 

He looked up as Kerth extended a lighted match, 
took it and held it to his cheroot. 

1 1 Thanks ’ ’ — briefly. 

“Do you think,” interrogated Kerth, “you could 
find her lair without a guide?” 

Trent smiled. “Hardly.” 

“I ’d take oath that her man, Chandra Lai, led us 
along the same street twice! Oh, she ’s a wily one! 
And the way she had us taken into the room while it 
was dark!” 

He puffed on his cheroot and Trent continued to 
jot down notes. 

“Furthermore,” Kerth drawled, “why doesn’t she 
want you to read those instructions until to-morrow? 
Some catch in it.” 

Conversation languished, and presently Kerth drew 
out his watch and observed: “'Nearly midnight. I ’ll 
have to be moving on.” 

He rose and extended his hand. 

“I ’ll take a room at a native serai in Bombay — for 
atmosphere — and meet you at the station. Until then, 
good luck!” 


110 


CAKAVANS BY NIGHT 


In the doorway he paused. He looked particularly 
Satanic at that moment, and again Trent was not quite 
sure that he liked him. 

“ Bombay, major!” were his parting words. And 
the door closed behind him. 

Trent stared at the blank panels for a moment ; then, 
while he ran his fingers through his hair, he glanced 
over his notes: 

Something queer about this Chavigny. May not belong to 
Order, but he’s not to be overlooked. Last alias was Gilbert 
Leroux, Kerth said. Kerth is a downy bird. Gilbert Leroux. 
Names mean nothing. Sarojini took particular pains to em- 
press it upon me that Chavigny is non compos mentis. There- 
fore, he isn’t. He’s something. What? And — Sarojini is 
a connection of the Nawab of Jehelumpore — the jewels of 
the Nawab were among those stolen. Find out if she was 
in Jehelumpore at time of theft. 

Then he tore off the slip of paper, crumpled it and 
held a corner to his cheroot. When the blaze lapped 
up to his fingers he let the paper fall to the floor, 
then swung his feet over the edge of the bed and reached 
for his tunic. From the inside pocket he removed the 
long envelope Sarojini Nanjee had given him. It was 
sealed and its white surface invited inspection. He 
made a movement to open it; hesitated. Why not? 
As Kerth suggested, there might be a trick — and he 
knew only too well that she was not above chicanery. 
But he did not open it ; slipped it under his pillow. 

A glance at his wrist-watch. He procured his re- 
volver; snapped open the breech; inspected the car- 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 111 


tridges; clicked it shut; placed it beneath the pillow 
with the envelope. Then he switched off the light and 
lay with his cheroot’s end glowing in the darkness. 

The discovery of the symbol of the Order revealed 
another side to the mystery surrounding Manlove’s 
death, and during the ride back to the hotel he had 
constructed a new theory — a theory that he reviewed 
now. The analogy between the Swaying Cobra and the 
woman of the cobra-bracelet did not escape him. One 
suggested the other. Surely it was plausible to surmise 
that Sarojini was the veiled woman, although he was 
at a loss to find a convincing motive for her presence 
at Gaya. However, Colonel Urqhart’s telegram stated 
that the woman had made inquiries about him — and 
what other woman was interested? Further proof was 
offered by the fact that the mysterious woman left 
Gaya on the night of the tragedy for Mughal Sarai, the 
junction for Benares. Finally, there was the coral pen- 
dant-stone. Sarojini had called it the “symbol” of the 
Order; therefore, only a member of that mysterious 
band was likely to possess it, and had not she admitted 
she was a member? And the pendant-stone was stolen 
— evidently for the reason that engraved inside was 
the name of its owner. Sarojini was in Benares; it 
was logical to assume, then, that some one 'in her 
employ had entered his room and removed the con- 
demning evidence. 

But, on the other hand, there were elements to upset 
this theory. Clues indicated that Manlove was stabbed 
at the bungalow and carried to the temple-ruins. 


112 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Could a woman do that? Under the stress of circum- 
stances, yes. But why move the body — unless to hide 
it? Or had Manlove been mortally wounded at the 
house and gone of his own volition to the ruins before 
his death? Possible — but he could conjecture no cause 
for such action. 

And there was Chatter jee. Since the receipt of the 
telegram telling of his death, Trent was of the opin- 
ion that the native knew something about the crime and 
for that reason was killed. Had Chatter jee gone to 
the bungalow that night, grief-crazed and believing 
Trent responsible for his child’s death, to administer 
primitive justice ? Had he witnessed the crime and fled ? 
Of course, there was the possibility that Chatterjee’s 
death might have been a coincidence — the termination 
of a quarrel between him and another native. Yet 
Trent was not inclined to lay great importance upon 
this, as he considered, meager explanation and his 
thoughts returned to the woman. 

He could fix the guilt upon neither Sarojini Nan jee 
nor Chatterjee. Of the two, he least suspected the 
native. He knew the woman to be unscrupulous — 
whether to the point of murder he was uncertain. True, 
it may not have been deliberate murder. She might 
have gone to the bungalow for (again) a mysterious 
reason; might have been discovered by Manlove. . . . 
But the glove did not exactly fit. Nor had he any 
concrete reason to believe her the woman of the cobra- 
bracelet — or to believe the woman of the cobra-bracelet 
involved. That the latter had worn a heavy veil, sur- 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 113 

rounded her, in his eyes, with an aura of mystery. This 
he realized, and gave her the benefit of the doubt. 

Nevertheless, the coral pendant linked Sarojini with 
the crime; suggested that even though she did not 
actually commit the deed, she was undoubtedly im- 
plicated. 

All of which did not clear the mystery; instead, 
bewildered him the more and kept suspicion, like the 
needle of a compass, wavering between Chatterjee, 
Sarojini Nanjee, the woman of the cobra-bracelet (if 
she were not Sarojini) and a person unknown. 

His cheroot had burned low, and he got up and 
flung it away, and made sure the door was secure before 
he returned to the bed; then he relaxed and lay star- 
ing up into the darkness — darkness that was hotter 
because of the thick mosquito-curtain — until he fell 
asleep. 


5 

Trent returned to consciousness gradually, as a diver 
rising from the bottom of the sea. He was aware of 
another presence in the room before he was completely 
awake, and he strained at the threads of sleep that 
still entangled him. 

The first proof of a presence in the hot, dark void 
that enclosed him was the sound of repressed breathing. 
He felt, now at the helm of his faculties, a movement 
under his pillow — realized it was a hand , a hand that 
withdrew stealthily, that belonged to a dark figure 
crouched outside the mosquito-curtain. A turban and 


114 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


shoulders were silhouetted upon the gray rectangle of 
a window. He sensed eyes upon him, cat-like eyes 
that saw despite the darkness. 

With a stealth that proved that the intruder was no 
novice, but of the school of thieves that graduate well- 
nigh perfect adepts in the art of silent movement, the 
silhouette receded from the bed. Trent realized that 
in all probability his revolver had been placed beyond 
reach ; attack by surprise was impossible because of the 
mosquito-cqrtain. So he lay there, undecided, scarcely 
breathing; and, after a moment, he let his hand slide 
slowly, cautiously, toward his pillow. 

The silhouette halted; was motionless. 

Trent’s hand touched the seam of the pillow and 
pressed underneath. It encountered steel. 

The silhouetted turban was moving again — toward the 
door. 

Trent gripped the revolver. He turned on his side 
noisily and sighed, as though in sleep. At the sounds, 
the dark figure stepped swiftly to one side of the 
window, thus vacating the gray rectangle. 

Trent waited no longer. He raised the mosquito- 
curtain and jumped. And the thing he apprehended 
happened. His head and shoulders became enmeshed in 
the netting. Cursing his awkwardness, he rent the 
fabric with a downward sw^eep of his hand. As he 
leaped through the opening, he saw the door flung wide, 
saw the man plunge out. 

He pressed the trigger — and it snapped harmlessly. 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 115 


“Damn!” he spat out, knowing the weapon had been 
tampered with. 

Again he pressed the trigger ; again that absurd click. 

Meanwhile the door slammed. The crash awakened 
him to the fact that the thief was escaping, and he 
dashed across the room and threw open the door. As 
he emerged, a figure disappeared behind the far 
corner. 

He rushed in pursuit, his bare feet padding upon the 
stone flags. At the end of the portico he halted sharply, 
almost colliding with something in white — a something 
that appeared, as if by magic, from behind a suddenly 
opened door; that came to a standstill as abruptly as 
he, and gasped. 

“Oh!” 

Words died in Trent’s throat. The girl, whom he 
recognized as she of the bronze hair, wore a long 
white garment, and her hair fell in heavy braids over 
her shoulders ; her hands were at her throat. 

For a moment they stood and stared, both speechless. 
Then: 

“Oh!” she repeated, with a hj^sterical little laugh. 
“You frightened me! I woke up and — ” She swal- 
lowed with difficulty. Her eyes dropped to her night- 
dress, she threw a significant look toward him and 
darted into her room. 

Not until he heard the key turn in the lock did he 
remember the very substantial reason for his presence 
on the portico— and then that reason was nowhere in 


116 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


sight, but was, he surmised, at a safe distance, laughing 
at the awkwardness of all sahibs in general and one 
sahib in particular. 

His face burning, and not altogether from the heat, 
he returned to his room. The glowing hands of his 
wrist- watch pointed to nearly two o’clock. 

When he switched on the light it shone on six car- 
tridges lying upon the table — cartridges that deft 
fingers had removed from his revolver and left to mock 
him. It was no mystery how the thief had managed 
to get in, for he knew that entrance could be effected 
with the aid of a master key, but it did puzzle him that 
neither his money nor the contents of his bag were 
touched. He suspected, however, now that he had time 
to review the affair, that the intruder had not come 
bent on loot, but after one particular thing — and when 
he assured himself that that thing was safe under his 
pillow, he guessed that his awakening had prevented the 
man from making away with it. 

As he held up the envelope, he was once more seized 
by an impulse to open it. But, as before, he placed 
the tempting object under the pillow. Then he re- 
turned the cartridges to the breech, and, after propping 
a chair against the door, turned off the light and 
stretched himself upon the bed,. 

Again a wave of mystery had lapped up and touched 
him, and receded without leaving a hint of the power 
that energized it. He could not suspect Sarojini 
Nanjee, for he saw no reason why she should have 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 117 


the envelope stolen. Other hands were at work. 

But thoughts and questions did not harry him long. 
He felt certain that he need not fear another intrusion 
that night, and when drowsiness returned he yielded 
to it. 


6 

The next morning at hurra hazri, or “big breakfast,” 
he found himself searching the dining-hall for the 
bronze-haired girl; but she was not there, nor did she 
appear during the meal. 

When he returned to his room he discovered a letter 
under the door, and tore it open with quickened interest 
as he recognized the handwriting and inhaled the deli- 
cate fragrance of sandalwood. 

GREETINGS ! 

You will no doubt be surprised when I inform you that 
instead of going to Bombay, you will go to Calcutta. The 
address of the place to which you are to report is set forth 
in the packet I gave you, and which you, being a man of 
honor, have not read ere you receive this. I told you Bombay 
last night because one can never be sure there are no ears 
listening, even in one’s own house. 

Your bearer, Rawul Din (who, I assure you, is worthy 
of the confidence you impose in him) will by this time be 
on his way to Bombay, which inconvenience to you I regret 
exceedingly. However, you shall have a servant. One 
Tambusami, an excellent bearer, will meet you in Calcutta. 
Regarding your own man, Rawul Din: he is, I am sure, a 


118 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


most obedient servant and will carry out your instructions 
by waiting in Bombay. 

Meanwhile, I trust you will have a most pleasant journey 
and will grow in both wisdom and prosperity. 

Your humble servant, 

sarojini nanjee 

When Trent finished reading the letter he smiled. 
'He felt no anger, nor even chagrin; he was amused; 
he could picture with what satisfaction she penned that 
missive. She was as full of tricks as a street- juggler, 
this Swaying Cobra. Whether she discovered Kerth’s 
true identity or only suspected he might act as a 
listening-post for the Intelligence Department, he did 
not know; he knew only that Sarojini Nanjee had out- 
witted the Government in the first move of the game. 

The remainder of the morning he spent in making 
arrangements for his departure. While he was hav- 
ing his luggage removed from his room he saw the 
bronze-haired girl — a glimpse of white and gold as she 
crossed the portico. She did not even glance at him. 

Two-thirty, with a sun glaring down implacably upon 
the dusty Cantonment, found him pacing the platform 
of the railway station. Suddenly he caught a glimmer 
of bronze, a familiar face among many unfamiliar 
ones. It may have been the advent of the train, roar- 
ing up in a cloud of heat, that made her turn quickly 
— and it may not. She hurried into a carriage, followed 
by a porter in a flowered chintz coat. 

As the train puffed out, Trent drew from his pocket 
the envelope Sarojini Nanjee had given him and tore 


HOUSE OF THE SWAYING COBRA 119 


off the end; read the closely written pages; reread 
them; made a few notes; memorized certain passages, 
and consigned the packet to ashes. One sentence stood 
out in his brain, in raised lettering : 

. . . Thursday night to the house of his Excellency the 
Mandarin Li Kwai Kung, in the Street of the River of the 
Moon, which is in the Chinese colony at Calcutta. 

It was Wednesday now. 


CHAPTER V 


INTERLUDE 

C ALCUTTA was luxuriating in the amber and blue 
of a clear day when Trent detrained in the How- 
rah Station the following morning; detrained as Mr. 
Robert Tavernake of London, in light gray tweeds, in- 
stead of Major Arnold Trent of Gaya, whose military 
trappings, with his identity, were secreted in a trunk. 

As he neared the front arches of the building, with 
a porter in tow, he was hailed by a drill-clad officer. 

“Hello, Trent !” exclaimed the uniformed one, whom 
he recognized as a former messmate. “Quo vadis, you 
old mummy?” 

Trent, not blind to the fact that he was being eyed 
by a native in horn-rimmed spectacles and a pink tur- 
ban, returned the greeting with a polite smile. 

“Sorry,” he said; “You must be mistaken” — and 
walked on. 

‘ ‘ Crazy ? ’ ’ wondered the surprised officer, ‘ ‘ or am I ? ” 
He stared at Trent’s gray back and sunburnt neck 
— and he was not the only one, for at least two others 
did. 

As the porter put Trent ’s luggage into an automobile, 
the expected happened: the spectacled, pink-turbaned 
native approached, beamed upon him and spoke in 
suave tones, in English. 


120 


INTERLUDE 


121 


‘‘You are Tavernake Sahib?” 

Trent nodded. ‘ ‘ Tambusami ? ’ ’ 

The pink turban inclined forward as he salaamed. 
“I have a communication for the Presence!” he an- 
nounced, extending an envelope that distilled an un- 
mistakable perfume. 

Trent did not open it, but thrust it into his pocket 
and instructed : 

“Get in.” 

The motor car rolled across the Hoogly and deposited 
Trent and his involuntarily acquired servant at a hotel 
off the Maidan. There he dismissed his bearer. 

“I sha’n’t want you this morning,” he told the pink- 
turbaned Tambusami, resolving to experiment with 
him. 

And the native departed with a most profound salaam. 

A half hour later, over breakfast, Trent read the note 
from Sarojini Nanjee. It wished him welcome to Cal- 
cutta and urged him to listen well when he visited his 
Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung — “who lives 
in that very poetic Street of the River of the Moon,” 
as she put it. “I regret that it will be impossible for 
me to see you in Calcutta,” she concluded,. “Mean- 
while, I trust you will find Tambusami an excellent 
bearer. ’ 9 

“Hmm,” he thought, “if she won’t be able to see me 
in Calcutta, where the deuce will she see me?” 

Then he turned his attention to the “Daily Indian 
News,” perused the closely-set columns while he finished 
his meal, and, after breakfast, set out for a stroll. He 


122 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


moved north along Chowringhee, past green-grown gar- 
dens, and into a quarter where the streets swam in in- 
tense white sunlight and men and women of every caste 
and color pressed close to the flanks of harnessed beasts. 
It did not disturb him in the least when a backward 
glance showed him a pink turban following at a discreet 
distance; he smiled. When he had filled his pipe, he 
turned toward the riverfront. He felt rather in the 
mood for a tramp, so he increased his pace — strode on. 
He reached the Hoogly Bridge ; followed Harrison 
Road. After an hour of steady walking he of the pink 
turban showed signs of weakening. Trent, perspiring 
freely yet not uncomfortable, suddenly plunged into 
a side street, made a series of turns and came out, 
eventually, near the Secretariat — without the pink tur- 
ban. There he encountered the officer he had met in 
the Howrah Station earlier that morning. 

“Hello, Ayrton,’ * was Trent’s genial greeting. 
“Sorry I couldn’t speak to you this morning — but too 
many ears were listening.” 

“So!” commented the officer, wisely. “You’re do- 
ing that now!” He shook his head with assumed 
gravity. “Government’s gone mad — madder ’n a 
March hare!” A laugh. “I suppose you ’re shadow- 
ing Ghandi!” 

Trent grinned and made an inconsequential remark. 

“Here permanently?” he queried. 

“End of my life, I daresay,” was the gloomy reply. 

“You can do me a favor, then” — thus Trent. “I ’ve 
a uniform I want to rid myself of temporarily; don’t 


INTERLUDE 123 

object if I send it around for you to keep? . 
Thanks.” 

They chatted for a few minutes; then the officer 
entered one of the buildings facing the square, and 
Trent returned to his hotel. 

He arrived hot and perspiring, and sat down upon 
the veranda to wait. And before long the pink turban 
appeared in the street below. Their glances met and 
Trent motioned to him. 

“Why did you follow me?” he demanded, as Tam- 
busami, sweat flowing from every pore of his brown 
face, salaamed. 

“My orders, 0 Presence!” 

“Whose orders?” 

“The Presence knows!” 

Trent thought a moment. Then: “I object to it.” 

Tambusami smiled broadly. “But, 0 Presence, it is 
for your good that I follow — to protect you!” 

And knowing it was useless to tell him he lied, the 
Englishman dismissed him curtly. 

Trent spent an idle afternoon. He did not leave the 
hotel, for he feared that he would encounter other 
acquaintances, as he had met Ayrton, and with Tam- 
busami tracking him it might make more insecure his 
position. To be sure, Sarojini Nanjee knew he was 
Arnold Trent — but did Tambusami? 

As he lay sprawled across his bed, enjoying the 
inactivity and listening abstractedly to the sounds from 
the street, a recollection of the bronze-haired girl in- 
sinuated itself into his thoughts. Subconsciously, he 


124 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


wondered why the remembrance of her came to him. 
He hadn’t seen her since she entered the carriage at 
Benares Cantonment; didn’t know whether she left 
the train along the route or in Calcutta. Queer that 
this girl should have crossed the border of mere obser- 
vation. Yet, had he analyzed it, he would have known 
the reason. The world, that is, the great firmament 
of existence around his immediate sphere, was to him 
a scroll of faces. Now and then some countenance was 
lifted from the multitude — a swift glimpse of eyes in 
the dusk, eyes he would never see again, and for many 
nights afterward, when he sat alone with his pipe and 
the stars, he would spin webs of glamour. A quixotic 
person, this Trent. . . . The girl, then, was one of the 
lifted faces. Skin of old ivory hue, he mused, and hair 
— now, just what color was it ? His imagination 
supplied a simile. Golden, with little fiickerings of 
auburn — like firelight on bronze. The figure rather 
pleased him. Firelight on bronze. A contrast to Saro- 
jini Nanjee. One the jungle orchid, blossom of purple 
shadows; the other .... well, the type one liked to 
picture at a piano *in a dusk-deepened room, with hands 
gleaming pale as moonlight. . . . 

Sentimentalism, he concluded. And dropped off to 
sleep. 


2 

Dusk had fallen when he awakened. He dressed 
quickly and went below. Tambusami was nowhere in 
sight; however, he suspected his shadow was not far 


INTERLUDE 


125 


away. Doubtless the native knew of his appointment 
in the Chinese quarter, but he determined if possible 
not to have him at his heels. To this end he took an 
automobile part of the way, by a roundabout route; 
then, certain he had eluded his tracker, set out on foot 
to finish the journey. 

An intense vitality lived in every line of his body 
as he swung along crowded streets, a tall, trim figure 
in white linens, smoking a cheroot with the air of a 
globe-trotter trickling through the evening swarm for 
no other purpose than to absorb atmosphere, instead 
of a man approaching an uncertain venture. 

Native Calcutta was airing itself after a hot day, 
and a film of color and life unreeled in the early night. 
He passed two sailors from a British man-o’-war, 
younger by ten years than himself, clean-clipped chaps. 
The sight of them brought back the old dream — freedom 
and the quest for fabulous isles. He rather envied that 
pair, irresponsibly young. Always there, this dream, 
lurking in the subconscious, eager for some incident 
to draw it into the conscious. 

From the thronged bazaars he turned into a quarter 
that was no less crowded, but with people of a different 
sort. It was as though he had descended into another 
world, a planet of dirt and filth and sin — sin in its 
nakedness, as only Asiatic cities know how to strip it of 
its glamour. A foul artery fed with the virus of the 
East — beings whose faces were mottles of yellow and 
brown and chocolate black upon the mephitic gloom. 
A woman in satin trousers ran out of a balconied house 


126 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


and clutched his arm, whispering an entreaty; she 
cursed him in bastard English when he thrust her away. 
Something of psychic consciousness came to him from 
the street, as though fanned into momentary being were 
the sparks of old evil .... Babylon and Rome, and 
the perished cities of the Nile. . . . 

Once clear of this humanity-clogged artery with its 
aura of ancient sin, he found himself in the quieter, 
though scarcely cleaner, Chinese quarter. Jews, Par- 
sees and Chinamen; black and gilt signs; open doors 
that, like dragon-mouths, expelled the mingled odors of 
samshu and soy, of cassia and joss-sticks and opium; 
an atmosphere that transported Trent to the pictur- 
esquely wicked towns of the Straits Settlements. 

The Street of the River of the Moon belied its name; 
it was no more than an alley and it slunk in the shadows 
of unpretentious houses. Its lights were dim, many- 
colored globes afloat on warm darkness; it was as mys- 
terious as the numerous slant-eyed yellow men who 
came and went so soundlessly in its shifting dusks. 
After several inquiries Trent located the residence of 
his Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung — a dark, 
colonnaded pile. He jerked the leather strap that hung 
from a panel of the door; heard a muffled tinkle, the 
padding of feet. The door opened wide enough to per- 
mit a yellow face to peer out. 

‘ * Tell his Excellency that Mr. Tavernake is here,” 
Trent instructed. 

The door closed quickly; again the padding of feet. 
After a moment the yellow face reappeared. This 


INTERLUDE 


127 


time the door opened sufficiently for Trent to see a 
house-boy in a slop-shop suit and a black skull-cap. 

“His Excellency sends greetings and bids you enter 
his dwelling, ’ ’ announced the house-boy. 

The door closed behind Trent. He was in a hall 
where a dong , swinging from brass chains, kindled an 
orange flame against the semi-darkness, where a stale- 
sweet scent clung to the air and gloom varnished every- 
thing. 

The house-boy took his shoes and gave him straw 
sandals, afterward leading him through a series of doors 
to a corridor where the rich, stupefying odor of opium 
saturated the atmosphere. A sliding door was pushed 
back — a black door inlaid with characters in glistening 
nacre — and Trent stepped into a dimly illuminated area. 

A lamp with a yellow shade hung by invisible means 
from an invisible ceiling, casting a pyramid of ochre 
light upon a figure that squatted on silken cushions 
beneath it — a figure arrayed in a loose yellow garment 
and the embroidered boots of a mandarin’s undress. 
He was grossly obese, with drooping gray mustaches 
and oblique, beady eyes — a grotesque effigy made more 
unreal by the incense that floated up from a brazier 
at his side and wreathed bluish spirals on the dead 
air around him. Trent received an impression of 
sheeny hangings beyond the radius of the lamp ; vases 
and gold-embroidered screens — a web of shadows, with, 
in its center, this gorged yellow spider. 

His Excellency rose with visible effort, smiled blandly 
and shook his own hands within his brocaded sleeves. 


128 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Yon will do me the honor to be seated?” he en- 
quired, gesturing toward a pile of cushions opposite 
him. “My house is flattered that one of such fame 
should lighten it with his presence.” 

Trent waited for his host to be seated, knowing this 
to be a custom, then dropped cross-legged on the cush- 
ions. Followed the usual exchange of lilied words, of 
felicitations and compliments. Afterward, Li Kwai 
Kung struck a gong and a little rice-powdered, red- 
lipped girl appeared from behind the dusky screens, 
like a figure out of one of Pan Chih Yu’s poems, and 
set a brass basin filled with scented water before Trent. 
When he had washed his hands the basin was removed. 
More lilied words, more felicitations and compliments. 
Then, a few minutes later, the first course of the meal 
was served. 

“Cln’ing chih fan,” said the mandarin graciously — 
by which he invited Trent to eat. 

Bamboo shoots, rice-cakes and honey ; roast duck 
flavored with soy, seeds of lotus in syrup; prawns, 
sweetmeats, nuts and tea made fragrant with petals of 
jasmine. A very celestial meal. They talked as they 
ate, and if his Excellency clung to the custom of balanc- 
ing food on his chop sticks and thrusting it unex- 
pectedly into his guest’s mouth, as an act of courtesy, 
he refrained from doing so on this occasion. Trent 
grew anxious to have the formalities over with. He 
knew he was undergoing a test ; upon the success of this 
interview, he imagined, depended his future safety. 

When the meal was finished, Li Kwai Kung asked: 


INTERLUDE 


129 


“Will you join me with a pipe? . . . . No?” 

A ring of the gong brought the serving-maid with 
cigars. His Excellency declined to smoke tobacco; in- 
stead he spoke to the girl in his own tongue and she 
vanished, to reappear presently with the requisites of 
an opium smoker — a lighted lamp on a tray, a blue 
jar containing poppy-treacle, and a metal pipe. The 
jar, Trent observed, was a piece of blue porcelain of the 
Sung period. 

Then, after the manner of the East, which is to say, 
obliquely, his Excellency approached the subject of 
Trent’s visit. 

“There are certain necessary precautions,” he began, 
while the girl twisted a black gummy substance about 
a needle and held it over the lamp, “before we enter 
into any discussion.” 

Trent opened his shirt and revealed a coral pendant 
chased with silver, lying against his skin. Li Kwai 
Kung nodded. 

“And if I say, ‘ It is a wise man who holds his tongue 
in the presence of knaves,’ ” pursued the mandarin, 
“what would be your comment?” 

“I would reply with the ancient wisdom of Lao Tzii 
— ‘By many words wit is exhausted; it is better to 
preserve a mien.’ ” 

Li Kwai Kung nodded again. “Hao,” he grunted 
— and his guest did not know that was a signal for 
the house-boy, armed with a revolver, to retire from 
behind one of the many screens. 

“It is needless, I am sure,” the Oriental resumed, 


130 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“for me to caution you, who are about to start on a 
journey to the dwelling-place of He-whose-wisdom-is- 
as-adamp-filled-with-much-oil, that the discreet man 
questions himself, a fool others. You will tread the 
path of discretion, I know, for I perceive that the light 
of intelligence burns with much brightness in your 
brain. ’ ’ 

A pause. Trent studied the blue porcelain jar. Li 
Kwai Kung took the metal pipe from the girl and in- 
haled; bluish vapor welled from his nostrils, half-ob- 
scuring his countenance. 

“The arm of the Order is long and powerful, like 
Mother Yangtze, and its eyes are as many as the stars.” 
Their glances met ; no expression was mirrored in either 
face. “Yours is a great work to do,” continued his 
Excellency, sinking deeper among the cushions and ex- 
pelling smoke. “The Order will reward the faithful; 
they shall flourish as the willow-branch. The first 
step of your journey to the City of the Falcon will be 
taken shortly — and what sage was it that said, ‘A jour- 
ney of a thousand miles begins with one step’?” 

The obese effigy smiled, pleased with his knowledge, 
and Trent felt that each word had its own hidden 
significance. Curiosity pricked him, like a needle flash- 
ing back and forth across the loom of thought. But 
he smoked his cigar and stared at the blue jar as if 
ffie had nothing weightier than the Sung porcelain upon 
his mind. 

“As a man climbs a mountain by terraces, so will 
you travel to the city where dwells the Falcon, he who 


INTERLUDE 


131 


guides the workings of the Order, ’ ’ Li Kwai Kung went 
on. “ There, having attained the summit, you will — 
er — see light. The next terrace of your journey is 
Burma. ’ ’ 

He withdrew an object from under the cushions and 
Trent looked upon a packet wrapped in white silk. 
The mandarin, placing his pipe in a bowl at his side, 
rested a contemplative gaze upon the silken wrapping. 

“ Passage for Rangoon has been booked for you on 
the Manchester, which leaves day after to-morrow. 
Here” — indicating the packet — “are all necessary 
papers. When you reach Rangoon you will take a train, 
as soon as convenient, for Myitkyina, where you will 
go to the shop of Da-yak, the Tibetan, and identify 
yourself by showing the symbol of the Order. He will 
furnish you with a hu-chao, or, as you would say, a 
passport, to a — er — higher terrace.” 

He handed the packet to the Englishman, who placed 
it in his pocket. Trent’s thoughts were revolving about 
what he had just heard — revolving and reaching no 
end. Myitkyina. Upper Burma. Were the jewels in 
Burma? But why Burma? How were they taken 
there? “Under the protection of your Secret Service,” 
Sarojini Nanjee had said. Were they hidden some- 
where in the hills? Myitkyina. He tried to visualize 
a map ; failed. . . . This City of the Falcon : in Burma ? 
And the Falcon? Who was he? White or Oriental? 
. . . . Groping — groping in the dark — a purposeless 
circle. At least, this Order was no small one. 

“I believe there are no further instructions to de- 


132 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


liver/ ’ he heard Li Kwai Kung say. “Regarding the 
trivial matter of your — er — incidentals, I presume you 
have been told to keep an account and submit it at 
the proper time? .... No? ... . Then do so, as it 
is the wish of the Order that you suffer no personal 
expenses. . . . Stay,” — as Trent made a move to leave 
— “it would be ungracious for me to allow so honor- 
able a guest to depart without further hospitality!” 

The little Chinese maid brought liquor — a sort of 
arak that, despite his Excellency’s comment that it was 
a draught of the gods, tasted like sweetened vinegar to 
Trent. As the Englishman sipped the wine he con- 
tinued to mull over what Li Kwai Kung had told him. 
The formidableness of the Order amazed him, troubled 
him not a little. This Falcon had a nest in Calcutta 
and Myitkyina. Where else? What of his brood? 
Why not, he mused, report what he knew to the In- 
telligence Department ; let them swoop down upon these 
two nests; thus avoid any treachery that Sarojini 
might contemplate? An idea that he instantly dis- 
missed, for to act prematurely was to invite defeat. 
He was under orders — and he had given his word of 
honor. Seek the root of the vine, the seed from which 
the Order flowered; then exterminate it. 

Trent saw by his wrist-watch that it was nearly ten 
o’clock when he finally rose to take his leave. Li Kwai 
Kung lifted his corpulent person with an effort and 
repeated the ceremony of vigorously shaking his own 
hands. 

“A sage once said, ‘A man’s actions are the mirrors 


INTERLUDE 


133 


of his heart/ ” was his parting remark. “And, verily, 
I have looked into your heart !” (Which, Trent re- 
flected later, was a rather cryptic compliment.) “May 
\yon flourish in wisdom and wealth, as the blossoms of 
the almond tree flourish after the snows have melted 
and run down from the Yunnan-fu!” 

Trent inclined his head gravely. “And may the 
Green Gods grant you the Twelve Desires ! ” he returned. 

The house-boy appeared; his Excellency sank among 
his cushions, like a spider retiring to its gossamer web ; 
and Trent was led back through the series of doors to 
the outer portal, where he exchanged the straw sandals 
for his shoes, and left the colonnaded residence — left 
a world of mystery for a world of noise and heat, of 
odorous reality and pale lanterns that reflected upon 
yellow faces and sloe-dark eyes. 

ITe was a short distance beyond the mouth of the 
alleyway when a gharry rolled by. He started to call 
after it — an impulse born dead. It was not late; he 
would walk. Motion accelerated his thoughts. And he 
wanted to think. 

As he strode along the street, fragments of the obese 
mandarin’s conversation slid into his brain and receded, 
like waves gently insinuating themselves upon a beach. 
Casually (he had turned into a narrow highway of bal- 
conies, of swinging signs and Chinese scrolls) he noticed 
a white woman on the opposite side of the street — only 
noticed her, for he knew the type that haunted this 
quarter. He would have expelled her instantly from 
his mind had not she moved from the shadow into a 


134 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


band of light that extended beyond a doorway ; had not 
he seen her pause and draw away, as from a plague, as a 
Chinaman slunk past. The glow fell upon a face of 
old ivory hue, upon hair as bronze as the lettering upon 
the black scroll above her wide-brimmed hat. 

ITe drew a quick breath. 

The girl evidently recognized him as he recognized 
her, for she darted out of the band of light and to his 
side. Dark eyes looked into his from under the brim 
of her hat. She smiled, half with fright, half ashamed. 

“I — I ’ve been very foolish,” she said, much after 
the manner of a truant child. “ Please take me out of 
this dreadful place!” 

Trent did not speak immediately; grasped her arm; 
looked about; hailed a dilapidated carriage that was 
rattling by. As it came to a halt he said “Get in!” 
much after the manner of a stem parent. 

She smiled again, that same half-frightened, half- 
ashamed smile, and obeyed. 

Thus she of the bronze hair stepped from Trent’s 
world-scroll into a sphere of more intimate association. 

3 

The girl was the first to speak. 

“Really, I don’t know what to say. I hope you don’t 
think — ” 

“I think as you do,” he interposed, “that you ’ve 
been very foolish.” 

She laughed tremulously. A voice as soft as a 
gentle monsoon rain — a voice that slurred over its words. 


INTERLUDE 


135 


Wisps of hair were burnished by passing lights; her 
throat shone palely. Only the eyes were in the shadow 
— dark eyes, deep with mystery and a promise of reve- 
lations. . . . Old ivory and bronze. A picture of soft 
tones and colors. 

“My brother would — well, I hardly know what he 
would do if he knew about this ! ’ ’ 

“Your brother ’s in the city?” — conscious of a linger- 
ing strain. 

She shook her head. “ I ’m alone, or I would n ’t have 
done what I did to-night — or what I ’m doing now. It 
was brazen of me to come up to you as I did, but I was 
frightened — terribly!” Then, with that nervous little 
laugh, she added, “But it wasn’t as though I were 
approaching a totally strange person, for — for I be- 
lieve you were at the hotel in Benares.” 

Trent remembered his uniform and that now he was 
Tavemake — remembered divers things. He decided 
quickly. 

“You must be mistaken about having seen me at 
Benares ; but I ’ve a brother there — in the Army. Per- 
haps you saw him. He passed through the city today.” 

“Oh! Perhaps so!” — this rather frigidly. “What 
a striking likeness !” He felt her eyes upon him — those 
dark eyes. A moment passed before she said : “I must 
explain why I ’m here, at this hour. Of course it will 
seem foolish to you, but I ’m a tourist, and I wanted to 
see Calcutta’s Chinese colony at night — oh, it had to be 
night, because I knew everything would be tawdry and 
ugly in daylight!” 


136 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


It did n ’t seem at all foolish to him, only indiscreet. 

“I hired a registered guide. He was to show me the 
temple of — of Kwan-te, I believe. Anyhow, he assured 
me it would be perfectly safe — and, knowing that it 
wasn’t, but rather enjoying the idea, I went. But I 
didn’t see the temple. There was a street fight be- 
tween some Chinese and Brahmins — Chinese and Brah- 
mins do fight, don’t they? In the confusion my guide 
disappeared. Perhaps he joined in or ran — I suspect 
the latter. I was so frightened when I found myself 
alone — and I — well, I walked a short distance — and 
then — then I saw you. ’ ’ 

He realized he ought to say something to fill in the 
gap that followed, but he was not a man given to much 
conversation and for the time nothing suggested itself. 
Finally : 

“I hope you ’ve learned a lesson” — grimly. 

She laughed, and the nervous note had gone from her 
voice. Again he thought of cool monsoon showers. 

“I ’m afraid I ’m incorrigible! Now that I ’m safe, 
I think I really enjoyed it. Being a man, you ’ll dis- 
approve.” 

“Thoroughly,” he responded. 

Conversation lagged for a brief spell. The girl took 
it up. 

“You see, Mr. — ” 

She stopped and he supplied : 

* 1 Tavernake — Robert Tavernake. ’ ’ 

“I forgot we hadn’t been introduced. My name is 
Dana Charteris. I was going to say that this is like a 


INTERLUDE 


137 


fairy tale to me — some ‘Arabian Nights’ story. Since I 
was a child I ’ve wanted to travel — to see Aladdin’s 
palace and Sinbad’s islands — and now I ’m doing it. 
I lived in a town called Bayon Latouche, in Louisiana, 
U. S. A., and, you know, Bayou Latouche scarcely pre- 
pares one for this!” — with a gesture. “It reminds me 
of carnival in New Orleans.” 

“You ’ve not been disillusioned?” 

“In India? No.” 

‘ ‘ Of course you have visited Agra. ’ ’ 

“No, I haven’t seen the Taj. It ’s a frightful con- 
fession to make, isn’t it?” 

He reflected upon the question and decided : 

“It ’s rather jolly to find some one who ’s traveled in 
India without seeing the Taj. Sort of different. But 
I forgot to ask where you wanted to go. For some 
reason I took it for granted that you ’re staying at the 
Grand.” 

“That ’s almost clairvoyant; I am stopping there.” 

When he had instructed the gharry ^wallah, she asked : 

“You don’t live in Calcutta?” 

Making conversation, he thought. 

“My home is the world.” Then, specifically, “I 
live in London. I represent a diamond firm.” 

Before she spoke he knew quite well what she was go- 
ing to say. 

“Jewels always fascinate me. Isn’t it frightful 
about the gems that were stolen?” 

“Rather,” was the close-mouthed reply. 

“Just fancy losing all those jewels!” she went on. 


138 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“My brother said they are worth millions or lakhs and 
lakhs of rupees, to be proper. I suppose it ’s the work 
of this Chavigny who ’s reported to be at large. You ’ve 
heard of him, have n ’t you ? ’ ’ 

He answered in the affirmative and, inwardly, ex- 
pressed relief that they were nearing the end of the ride. 

“I can’t ever thank you enough,” she told him as 
they left the gharry and entered the hotel. 

In the better light he saw her eyes for the first time 
and explored a new dimension of strength and dignity. 
He felt as though he looked into the rich glow of autumn 
forests, spaces of warmth and color and spirit — an 
initiation into the sense of discovery and lofty exhilara- 
tion that Balboa must have known when he gazed upon 
the shining expanse of an unknown sea. It was a 
glimpse into some high arcanum — to him new, but to 
the world as ancient as the tale of Cana of Galilee. 

“I hope I ’ll see you before I leave,” she said in a 
way that would have made it impossible for him to mis- 
understand, had he been inclined to do so. “Good 
night. ’ ’ 

He watched her go. . . . And when he reached his 
room and examined the silk-wrapped papers Li Kwai 
Rung had given him, she persisted in cleaving through 
his thoughts, in appearing from the pages before him 
and distracting him; and after a few minutes he re- 
wrapped the packet and placed it in his trunk. 

Long after he plunged the room into darkness he lay 
thinking — thinking of Kerth in Bombay, of his Excel- 
lency Li Kwai Kung sitting in his shadowy room, like a 


INTERLUDE 


139 


yellow-bellied spider, and of the Order of the Falcon. 
The Manchester was to sail Saturday ; it was Thursday 
now. Two days, an interlude; then the Bay, Rangoon 
and — 

But would he see her before he left? 

4 

Morning and a hint of coolness caressing the air. 
Sampans and other craft rocked and crooned in the 
murky Hoogly. Gauzy streamers of smoke floated over 
the jute-mills of Howrah. Sunshine drenched the mod- 
ern buildings of Dalhousie Square and Government Row ; 
submerged the myriad bazaars and shops in yellow 
liquor; crept into the room where Trent was sleeping 
and aroused him with an impelling finger. 

He dressed and went to breakfast. When he left the 
dining-hall his attention was arrested by a black straw 
hat with a sheaf of cornflowers and ripe yellow wheat 
about the crown. A tendril of hair glowed against the 
somber brim. She was talking with a native, an 
itinerant merchant; a string of beads hung from her 
white fingers. Trent approached from behind and 
spoke. 

‘ 1 He ’s asking entirely too much for those stones, Miss 
Charteris.” 

She turned, smiling. He felt the same warmth in her 
brown eyes as on the previous night. 

“You always appear at the psychological moment — or 
rather,’ ’ she interpolated, “this time at the financial 
moment.” 


140 


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She returned the beads to the merchant, who took no 
pains to hide his displeasure at Trent ’s interposition. 

“I ’m really glad you appeared — for a purely selfish 
reason. I want to buy some things to send home, and I 
know if I go alone I ’ll be cheated outrageously. I won- 
der if you ’d care to go with me? However, I suppose 
that, man-like, you detest shopping with a woman.” 

“I don’t object at all,” he said. 

4 4 And you really have n ’t any business engagements ? ’ ’ 

“I ’m free until to-morrow.” 

“Oh, you ’re leaving Calcutta then?” 

“Yes.” 

“So am I” — with a smile. 

She raised a silk parasol of pongee-color as they left 
the hotel, and the sun reflected a rich glow through the 
fine texture. 

“You see,” she explained, 44 1 taught music at Bayou 
Latouche and I promised my pupils I ’d send them each 
a remembrance from India.” 

He might have known she was a musician. There was 
a depth of conception in her that was lyrical, a somber 
yet thrillingly-alive tone, of which her eyes were the 
pinnacle-expression. Andante appassionato. Queerly, 
that term came to him. His mental portrait of the day 
before blended in with actuality: White hands brush- 
ing the keys in a dusk- varnished room; nothing heavy, 
some old song, redolent of recollections. . . . 

“Is this your first trip to India?” he heard her ask- 
ing. The clamor of Chowringhee was in his ears, but 


INTERLUDE 141 

her voice rang clearly through the sounds, an unbroken 
thread in the tangle of city streets. 

“No. Mother India called me when I was a boy. I 
used to hunt with my father. ’ ’ That was true ; for some 
reason he detested lying to her. 

“Hunting! Tiger?” 

He nodded. 

“Is it true,” she queried, “that there are mystics who 
walk in the jungles with animals — who belong to a sort 
of brotherhood of the wild and understand tiger and 
python and cobra?” 

“The jungle has her own secrets,” was his reply; 
“things that white men will never know.” 

‘ 4 I heard a man, * ’ she resumed, 4 4 a converted Brahmin 
priest, lecture in New Orleans. He told of his boyhood ; 
of the magic lore of the ‘Mahabarata’ and the 4 Ramay- 
ana’; and of a time when an old priest — he called him 
a Saddhu — took him into the jungle at night, and he 
heard the many animal-sounds — the voices of the jungle. 
He said that once green eyes peered at them, so close 
that he could hear the quick breathing of the beast, and 
the old priest only looked into the eyes — oh, he described 
that look as so potent and unafraid ! — and soon the eyes 
disappeared. I *ve always remembered that. Since then 
I ’ve wanted to feel the jungle — and the power of will 
that can soothe a great animal. Yet I suppose Mother 
India, as you call her, is suspicious of us foreigners who 
try to pry into her secrets. And yet ’ ’ — the brown eyes 
were filled with reflections — “perhaps she has a right to 


142 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


be resentful, for men have maligned and misrepresented 
her so, credited her with false mysticism, with Mahatmas 
and cults of which she isn’t guilty.” Then she 
laughed — a little ripple that broke the smooth spell. 
* ‘ I — an outsider — talk as if I were intimate with India ! 
Although sometimes I do feel that I must have known 
India before; a haunting familiarity. That ’s why I 
came — to see if my visions were aright.” Again the 
rippling laugh. “But I ’m sure you ’ll think me an 
Annie Besant, incognito, if I talk on like this ! ’ ’ 

“Not at all” — smiling. “I ’m interested.” 

“But you should tell me of India; for you ’ve hunted 
in her forests and wild places. Oh, it must be won- 
derful to know the world ! ’ ’ 

“Well, I ’d scarcely say I know the world,” he cor- 
rected; “only a few Indian and Persian cities — and 
some of the more southern watering-places of Asia. I 
was stationed for a while at Singapore.” 

“Stationed? You mean in the interest of your firm 
— or were you in the Army then, like your brother?” 

“In the Army,” he answered, again experiencing 
that insurrection- against falsehood. 

“I see,” she commented. A wistful sigh. “I think 
I should have been a man. Penang, Shanghai and 
Zanzibar, those cities with such thrillingly wdcked 
names, fascinate me; Tibet and inner China, all the 
far places, call. There’s something pagan and mag- 
nificent about it — a sort of broken thread in me that 
matches the tapestry of it all. Oh, I ’m sure I should 
have been a man! I know if I were, I 'd be an ex- 


INTERLUDE 


143 


plorer and hunt among the ruins of the Phoenicians 
and the Incas, and those other remnants of ancient 
civilizations. ’ ’ 

Her words brought a tightening of the cords in his 
throat. Another who dreamed of the fabulous isles! 
But, for a reason he did not analyze, he could not 
place her in the picture she painted. Always, to him, 
the music-room — white hands in the dusk. 

‘‘But I ’ll have my fling,” she continued; “only in 
a mild degree. My brother’s home is in Burma. I ’m 
going to live with him, and we plan to slip off every 
now and then. A trip to Malaya or Borneo or Java — 
I ’ve heard so much of the beauty of Batavia — or up 
the other way to Siam. Siam! Isn’t the very name 
magic? Bejewelled dancers and emerald Buddhas and 
theaters where they pantomime ancient tales! . . . 
I ’m not a reformist in the least, but there ’s one sort 
of ‘uplift work’ I ’d love to do — a ‘purpose in life,’ 
as some call it. I ’d like to visit the far places and 
return home and lecture to those whose boundaries are 
their own yards, and try to make them understand that 
on the other side of the world there are civilizations 
so much mellower than their own, and doctrines of ex- 
istence that have nothing to do with mints and stock 
exchanges ! ’ ’ 

Her voice was an expression of the high arcanum that 
he had glimpsed in her eyes. Here was a woman who 
possessed the rare triumvirate of flesh and mind and 
soul; whose gifts to men were other than brief summer 
passions and earthly donations. He felt that it was 


144 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


irreverent when he asked if he might smoke. As he 
touched a match to his cheroot, she went on: 

“Oh, the West knows\so little about the East, and 
the East so little about the West, that it isn't strange 
that one misunderstands the other. . . . But I ’m bor- 
ing you with this talk," she broke off irrelevantly. 

“Won’t you go on?" — earnestly. 

She smiled. “It ’s impertinence for me to tamper 
with mysteries that I haven’t explored. No," — still 
smiling — “I ’m going back to my ken — to Siamese 
dancers and pantomime shows. And that reminds me, 
is it safe to go to a native theater? I ’d feel as if I ’d 
missed part of Calcutta if I didn’t see a Bengali 
performance." 

“I wouldn’t advise you to go alone." This soberly. 
“Too, if you don’t understand the language, it would 
prove rather dry entertainment." 

Another smile. “Why must a woman have such nar- 
row man-made boundaries? If you hint that it ’s 
dangerous, then you ’ll intrigue me the more." 

A recollection of the Chinese quarter flashed through 
him. 

“If you insist on going," he said, and he, too, was 
smiling, 1 ‘ 1 daresay nothing can stop you — and the best 
possible thing for me to do is to offer my guardianship." 

“It really wouldn’t be stealing your time? Oh, it 
would be splendid! .... But you ’re leading me by 
all these shops. Shall we go in here?" 

It was an epochal morning for Trent. After the 


INTERLUDE 


145 


tension of the past few days, he craved relaxation. 
This recess had a warmth and exhilarating intimacy 
that was a stimulus to him, and he luxuriated in it, 
listening attentively as the girl talked — talk that re- 
vealed little brilliant flashes of her nature — and drink- 
ing in the study of rich tints that her face and hair 
presented in the straw-colored light beneath her sun- 
shade. He had the feeling of a seaman in port, a boyish 
thrill at the freedom from restraint ; a few hours shore 
leave, then the sea again. He entirely forgot his sub- 
stantial shadow until they returned to the hotel. The 
sight of the pink turban whipped him back into 
tension. 

‘ ‘At five-thirty, ’ ’ she said as they parted. “And 
I *m sure it will be a wonderful adventure.” 

As she left him, Tambusami approached, smiling his 
ingratiating smile. 

“I have news to report, Presence,” he announced. 
“It is indeed well that I am here to protect your 
interests, for while you were away some one entered 
your room, and had not I appeared at the opportune 
moment he might — ” 

“You had him arrested?” Trent cut in. 

“I went to your room, and hearing strange sounds 
within, I looked through the keyhole and saw a man 
— a brown man. Knowing he was a thief, I took the 
liberty of entering. He had opened your trunk— oh, 
they are clever, these thieves! — but he did not have a 
chance to steal anything.” 


146 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“You caught him?” 

The smile left Tambusami’s face. “He was too 
strong for me, Presence; he had muscles like the uni- 
corn ! ’ 9 

Trent considered a moment. Then: “Whose ser- 
vant are you — mine or hers?” 

Tambusami beamed. “She pays me to be your 
bearer ! ’ 9 

“Then say to her that I ’m capable of taking care 
.'if myself and that you Ye to be my servant from now 
on and not my shadow. We ’ll only be here until to- 
morrow, which no doubt she ’s already told you, but 
until then you ’ll watch my room instead of me.” 

Trent found the silk- wrapped packet safe in his trunk. 
Nothing was disturbed or missing. However, he sur- 
mised that the “thief” gained what he came after — 
knowledge of his, Trent’s, destination. Was this the 
hand of that mysterious power he had felt in Benares 
when he awakened to discover an intruder in his room? 
But what power could it be? Not Sarojini Nanjee. 
Who? .... Plot and counter-plot. Each day fixed 
in him more immovably the belief that behind the ac- 
tivities in which he was involved was a sinister purpose, 
more stupendous, when revealed, than he imagined. 
Every new incident, like a hand in the night, lured him, 
beckoning, but never fulfilling the promise of dis- 
closure. Adventure ! And only one thorn to prick the 
joy from it. . . . Manlove. . . . 

It came to him suddenly that perhaps, unaware of it, 
he was exploring the fabulous isles of his fancy. 


INTERLUDE 


147 


5 

They had tea at a restaurant in Government Place. 
She wore the black straw hat with cornflowers and wheat 
woven about the crown. White voile caressed slender 
limbs and fell away in a deep hem to give a glimpse of 
silk-stockinged ankles and suede shoes. 

They rode along Beadon Street in a glamorous after- 
sunset glow (the car was threading through swarms 
whose sheet-like garments blended softly with the gray 
pastel of houses and the lingering rose-light) and Trent, 
eyes upon the girl, felt the sheer call of youth and 
romance at dusk. The very atmosphere was an elec- 
trode, drawing its current from the first white stars. 
Nor was Dana Charteris unreceptive. She was aware 
of a shielding warmth, and not of the physical, in his 
presence. The play of muscles of sunburnt cheek and 
jaw was vital and challenging, but behind that, more 
convincing because it was not visible to the eye, but 
to a sense of inner perception, was a compelling clean- 
liness; strength that had not to do with thews or 
tendons. 

The theater was in a neighborhood of white houses 
and green palms, close to Beadon Square; their seats 
in an orchestra-stall. Over the pit hung oil lamps, 
round yellow moons suspended in cavernous gloom ; dim 
electric lights in the ceiling ; about them, a loose-robed, 
turbaned audience, the majority chewing pellets of 
crushed areca-nut and lime. 

Musicians in white raiment filed in and played an 
overture, and the performance began A tale of 


148 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

chivalrous deeds and chivalrous days (thus translated 
Trent in a whisper, as the actors, flashes against the 
rich gloom of a back-drop, recited their lines) ; of 
Kurnavati, the Rani of Chitor, and Humayun, the Great 
Mogul. Bahadur Shah, so went the story, was hurling 
his armies against Chitor. The Rani had sent out the 
pride of the Rajputs, but they could not check the 
onrush of Bahadur Shah. Chitor was lost. Then the 
Rani, recalling a custom, took from her arm a bracelet 
and gave it to a servant, bidding him carry it, with 
a plea for succor, to Humayun, the Great Mogul. The 
servant departed. . . . And the first act ended. 

“And you said it would be dull!” This from Dana 
Charteris when Trent had explained all that happened. 
“Somehow it makes me think of the Brahmin priest 
who lectured — a sort of thrilling mysticism; color and 
tragedy. ’ ’ 

Just before the second act Trent glanced around the 
betel-chewing audience and saw — a pink turban. It 
disappeared as he looked, and he smiled at the thought 
of Tambusami crouching between the seats of the back 
row of stalls. 

The second act was at the court of Humayun. The 
messenger of the Rani of Chitor arrived ; presented the 
bracelet. Humayun, knowing of the custom, accepted 
it. By that act he became the bracelet-brother of the 
Rani, bound by custom to go to her if she called. Then 
the servant delivered the Rani’s plea. And Humayun, 
who was a noble monarch, drew a jewelled sword from 
a jewelled scabbard and declared that the blade should 


INTERLUDE 


149 


not return to its sheatli until his bracelet-sister was 
free of the oppression of Bahadur Shah. 

Thus the second act. There was a third; a fourth. 
Clash of steel upon steel; the clangor and strident ring 
of battle. In the last act Humayun reached Chitor — 
too late. For Kumavati, rather than be conquered by 
the terrible Bahadur Shah, died upon the funeral pyre. 
And Humayun, borne to the walls in a golden palan- 
quin, looked toward the smoky ruins and wept. \ 

Trent, leaving the theater, let his eyes quest over 
the crowd in search of Tambusami. But he had gone. 
However, the Englishman suspected he would find him 
at the hotel, the essence of innocence. 

“Now that you ’ve seen the Chinese quarter and a 
Bengali theater,” he said as they rode toward the 
modern city, “what other reason can you think of to 
prowl about after dark?” 

“I won’t have another chance in Calcutta,” she 
answered, smiling. “ I ’m leaving to-morrow ; and when 
I ’m with my brother — well, you know how brothers 
are. ... I felt so sorry for the Rani in the play — she 
looked as I ’ve always visualized Ameera, in ‘Without 
Benefit of Clergy.’ Was that really a custom — the 
part about the bracelet-brother?” 

He nodded. 

“It was superb romance.” The brown eyes deepened. 
“I shall always remember that story of Humayun and 
Kurnavati — and remember you for explaining it to me. ’ ’ 

Silence of a few seconds followed. Then Trent 
ventured : 


150 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“I daresay I sha’n't see you again before I go. I 
sail to-morrow noon.” 

4 ‘Really? I ’m sailing then, too. I suppose you ’re 
going back to England?” 

“No. I” — he hesitated — “I ’m bound for 

Burma. ’ ’ 

She laughed, a bit tremulously — that laugh of soft 
monsoon showers. 

“Why, so am I. Surely you ’re not booked on the 
Manchester f” 

The face that was turned to her, faintly bronze in 
the street-lights, was impassive enough ; his only expres- 
sion was of mild, polite surprise. 

“Yes — on the Manchester.” 

His thoughts were swept by two currents, one shot 
with chill warnings, the other warm with the wine of 
anticipation. But for the incident of the uniform at 
Benares, the announcement that she would sail on the 
same boat would have done anything but disturb him. 
However, even if she did suspect his brother-fabrica- 
tion, she could not guess his mission. As Tavernake 
she knew him. A few days more — a lengthening of the 
intermezzo , rich notes and chords of harmony to re- 
member afterward — then, at Rangoon, the finale. Al- 
legro moderato. . . . No harm, this Tavernake inter- 
lude ; a cool breath to the being, like temple-dusk after 
arid desert heat. 

‘ ‘ What a coincidence ! ’ ’ she remarked ; then explained, 

‘ ‘ My brother lives in Rangoon. But he is n ’t there now. 
He had an — an accident in Delhi, and I came ahead to 


INTERLUDE 


151 


attend to some matters for him. Oh, nothing serions 
happened to him, or I wouldn’t be here. But it is 
queer that we ’re going on the same boat. Don’t you 
think so?” 

And he replied in a manner that was new for him. 

“Not altogether. It merely proves that Kismet had 
a purpose in arranging our meeting last night.” 

“A purpose?” she echoed — and they both were think- 
ing different thoughts. 

They were in Chitpur Road ; soon Chowringhee ; then 
the hotel. To him the throbbing of the motor car sud- 
denly became the pulse of the night, of the hot street 
where, on either side, dark faces peered curiously at 
them. Subconsciously, his brain dipped back; he saw 
her beneath the black-and-gold scroll on the previous 
night. . . . Her voice broke in, a crystallization of his 
thoughts. 

“I was thinking how foolish it was,” she said, “for 
me to have done what I did last night. ’ ’ 

“You mean” — he smiled — “in speaking to me, or — ” 

A whimsical laugh. “Both. Oh, don’t misunder- 
stand me! The thought just occurred that — well, my 
adventure might have turned out differently. I ’m 
wondering, too, if I should have come with you to-night. 
Instead of a jeweller from London, you might have been 
— anything. What I ’m trying to say, and doing it 
badly, is that after all we ’re prisoners of instinct — at 
the mercy of elements that we have not the power to 
fathom!” 

A pause ensued, and when she spoke again her tone 


152 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


was one of light raillery, yet beneath it was a tense 
excitement that puzzled him. 

“And consider. For all you know I might have 
planned that meeting in the Chinese quarter for a — 
a dreadful purpose. Even now I may be spinning a 
web around you!” Then, with a laugh, she switched 
the topic. ‘ ‘ It will be pleasant to have an acquaintance 
aboard. Voyages are rather monotonous when one is 
alone, don’t you think?” 

Conversation was not at its best during the remainder 
of the ride, and at the hotel they parted with a few 
words, rather stilted words. He ’d surely see her on the 
boat. Yes, he must look her up. She had enjoyed 
the evening tremendously. A last glimpse of her eyes, 
of their luring mystery; then she was gone. 

Trent did not go to sleep immediately. He lay in 
darkness and smoked a cheroot, puzzling over what 
Dana Charteris had said. 

“. . . . For all you know I might have planned that 
meeting. . . . Even now I may be spinning a web 
around you ! ’ ’ 

Those w r ords lodged in his brain, baffled him. There 
was something he could not understand, but none the 
less intriguing, in the still, obscure depths below the 
surface ripples. 


6 

Trent did not see Dana Charteris the next day. It 
was raining and Calcutta was gray and dismal. Tam- 


INTERLUDE 


153 


busami appeared early and saw to it that his luggage 
was transferred to the ship. Trent felt that his very 
spirits were moist as he rode to the boat. Even his 
cabin was damp, cheerless. 

Shortly before five o’clock the Manchester warped out 
from the jetty, her twin screws churning the brown 
water. Trent, looking out of his cabin window, saw 
Calcutta draw robes of rain about her and fade. The 
smoke-stacks of Howrah’s mills were blurred fingers 
appealing to a stark sky; leaves, wind-whirled from 
toddy-palms on the mud banks, spun across the Hoogly ; 
only when lightning scribbled a line of vivid lavender 
across the heavens was the gray monotony relieved. 

The world was an old, old woman, and the sound of 
the steamer ’s whistle was her hoarse, stricken voice. 


CHAPTER VI 


HSIEN SGAM 

N IGHTFALL found the Manchester’s prow bearing 
into a thin mist. The rain had slackened to a 
fine diamond-drizzle; lightning no longer wrote livid 
ideographs upon the sky, but flashed far away in 
faded flares. 

Trent did not see Dana Charteris at dinner, as he 
expected. “ Dummkopf Englischer ” — thus he was cat- 
alogued by a German merchant from Celebes who sat 
at the same table in the dining-salon and succeeded in 
drawing only monosyllables from him. The gentleman 
from Celebes was hot, damp and irritable, and he found 
fuel for his ill-humor in the Englishman who sat be- 
side him and ate mangosteens with the air of one who 
liked such beastly heathen food. 

After the meal Trent sought the smoking-room with 
a volume of lyrics, much to the disgust of his German 
dinner-companion, who, in passing, read, “Poems of 
Alan Seeger” over his shoulder. But Trent could not 
fix his attention upon the reading matter, and he sat 
with the book in one hand, a lighted cheroot in the other, 
and his interest nowhere in particular. He was suffer- 
ing the first anaesthetizing effects of a drowsy boredom. 
“. . . . You ’ll have to go higher than that if you 
154 


HSIEN SGAM 


155 


want to see me!” rasped a voice close by, and there 
followed a click of chips, a laugh. 

Clouds of grayish smoke, fanned into fantastic shapes 
by electric punkas, floated on dead atmosphere, person- 
ifying the languor that had suddenly quartered in Trent. 
A white-clad deck-steward slid through the vaporous 
whorls, serving frosty glasses of arrica, or whiskey and 
soda to those less favorably inclined toward exotic 
liquors. 

“. . . . But surely, my friend, you would resent it 
if we sent missionaries to your country,” a voice not 
far behind him was saying ; a quiet voice that separated 
itself from the drone of conversation, a voice with a 
peculiar, alien note that caused Trent to wonder, after 
he heard it, why it had not penetrated to him before. 
“Why, imagine the indignation of your — what do you 
call them, New Yorkers? — if Buddhist priests estab- 
lished a mission in that vast and bewildering city; 
if they so presumed as to try to press their creed upon 
those of another religion.” 

Trent was possessed of a desire to turn; he merely 
sat expelling smoke from his nostrils, listening without 
consciousness of eavesdropping. 

Another voice, quieter still and more reserved — an 
American voice — answered. “The result of such a 
thing,” it said, “would be ... . well, in the first place 
no Christian would. . . .” 

“That is precisely it. Do you wonder, then,” re- 
sumed the voice wflth the alien note, “that we resent 
the intrusion of missionaries? What does it matter if 


156 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Deity is symbolized by Buddah, Mohammed or a Nazar- 
ene ? God is one. No, my friend, you cannot convince 
me that it is better for my people to substitute your 
God for theirs. In other relationships they should be 
friendly, and they are, but in religion .... a colossal 
misunderstanding. My people are declining; soon, as 
a man of letters once said, the rust of our departed 
glory will corrode us and reduce us to the dust into 
which our empire has dwindled. Russian wine, Jap- 
anese greed and Western vices — a combination too 
strong for the slender potencies of our flesh. On the 
other hand, you Anglo-Saxons, Celts, Normans, Huns 
and Slavs will continue to build your empires ; to fight 
among yourselves (there will be no war between East 
and West) ; to go forward in science and invention 
.... Yes, I am returning home.” 

The American voice asked a question. A laugh, 
selvaged with irony, answered it, and — 

“No, I shall not attempt to ‘enlighten’ my people. 
I have studied in your universities, dipped into your 
learning; now, true to the blood, I go back. Perhaps, 
were you to see me in a few months, you would be 
shocked, for I shall be a ‘barbarian’. . . . What? 
Satisfied? Yes, I believe I will. Your country has its 
dramas, its libraries — so very much — yet I could not 
but feel, when I was there, that the structure of your 
land is a — a Frankenstein, do you call it? — of self- 
stimulated delight, something soulless. Millions wor- 
shipping the false gods of body-pleasure; vassals of the 


HSIEN SGAM 157 

senses, ignoring the fact that there are hungers above 
mere flesh-appetite.’’ 

The voice fascinated Trent, gave him a picture of 
deft fingers inlaying a mosaic; thoughts chosen with 
care and spoken as though filtered through many trans- 
lations before they left the tongue in the integument 
of English. 

“. . • I hope I have not offended you,” the voice 
resumed. “I feel no rancour, you understand, only 
an ache — a very great ache — over this colossal misunder- 
standing. . . . You must go? Then, good night!” 

A chair moved. After a moment a man in somber 
clerical garb passed and left the smoking-room. Trent 
closed his book; placed his bumt-out cheroot in an ash- 
bowl; got up. And the quiet voice behind him asked: 

4 £ Your pardon. Have you a match?” 

Trent turned. Whatever he expected, he was sur- 
prised at What he saw. An Oriental of no common type. 
He registered an impression of bronze, almost beautiful, 
features; a high, Mongoloid skull; dark eyes, veiled by 
an impalpable haze of tobacco smoke; moist, sensitive 
lips, rather thin and too red. Features that drew and 
repelled him in the same instant — face of a Buddha, and 
eyes. . . . He groped in an effort to understand the 
eyes. The man wore tweeds with the air of one ac- 
customed to Western clothing, and he had a poise, a 
finish to the minutest detail of dress, that, in a yellow 
man, seems sleek and “dossied” to the eyes of the 
Occident. 


158 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“ Thank you,” said the Oriental, as Trent gave him 
a match. 

The Englishman nodded perfunctorily and left the 
smoking-room, a picture of the bronze, beautiful face, 
lighted by the flaring match, engraved upon his brain. 

His curiosity led him to the purser’s office where he 
consulted the register. His eyes paused as they en- 
countered the name “Dana Charteris”; roved down the 
list of first-class passengers to a signature that stood 
out from the others by its very bizarrerie. 

“Hsien Sgam,” he mused aloud. “Hinm. . . . 
Sgam — Sgam. . . . Mongolian.” 

And he went to his cabin to fetch a raincoat, still 
thinking of the bronze face of Hsien Sgam. 

2 

Trent twice circled the promenade deck. The faint 
drizzle had ceased, but there was a dampness in the 
mist that moistened his face as with spray. Yet he 
could not bring himself to the point of turning in. 
The scene exerted an irresistible fascination over him. 
The spectral pallor of cabin walls; portholes aglow in 
the murk; a gentle vibration underfoot; the swish- 
swish of the tide against the hull. 

On his third round of the ship he paused aft, at 
a point that yielded a view of gaping cargo-well and 
the steerage. He could see the forms of steerage-pas- 
sengers — amorphous blurs in the hazy night. A tongue 
of yellow lapped out from a bleary deck-lamp and 
licked across crowded bodies, groping stanchions and 


HSIEN SGAM 


159 


hatches, touching twin ventilators that reared up, like 
phantom cobras, out of the jungle of human beings. 
Some one was piping on a reed flageolet — an eerie, tune- 
less wailing. He almost imagined the pink turban 
of Tambusami among the spot-like head-dresses below. 

As he passed the wireless-house, at a turn of the 
promenade-deck, he caught a glimpse of green-shaded 
lights. A breath of tobacco warmly brushed his face; 
he heard the crackle of static trickling in. 

It was not yet ten-thirty when he went to his cabin. 
He undressed leisurely, reflecting the while. Then, 
lighted pipe between his teeth, he established himself in 
his berth with a newspaper. But the restful churn of 
the engines had a somnolent effect upon him, and 
presently he tossed the news-sheet away, put out the 
light and settled himself for sleep. 

And did not. 

Of late, since the night he found Manlove in the 
ruined temple at Gaya, he had formed the habit of 
reviewing, after retiring, the incidents of the day. 
This habit clung. Sleep that a moment ago courted 
him, now evaded his advances. A picture of the Mongol 
created itself in illusive imagery before him. A woman ’s 
mouth — and a woman’s hands, for the skin that touched 
his as he gave the Oriental a match had the feel of 
satin. Long hands, they were; but he fancied that 
beneath the silken smoothness was sinuous, fibrous 
strength. They .... But why in Tophet was he think- 
ing of this Buddha-faced heathen? He shut his mind. 
But thoughts refused to be excluded from their domin- 


160 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


ion. Nor could he sleep. His eyelids rebelled against 
closing, and when now and then he succeeded in down- 
ing their resistance, it was only to have them lift the 
next instant and show him the dim monotony of the 
state-room, relieved by the murky gray porthole. 

And as he stared at the porthole, contemplating it 
vindictively, as if it were responsible for his wakeful- 
ness, it suddenly darkened. 

When he became fully cognizant of the fact that a 
face was peering in at him, it had vanished — but as he 
sat up, his every nerve alive, he witnessed a second 
apparition. 

The murk outside the porthole gave birth to a hand 
that sank into the dim obscurity within, then reap- 
peared, stamped momentarily in relief upon the gray 
circle, and withdrew into the foggy gloom that had 
yielded it. 

Trent sprang from his berth. As his feet touched the 
floor, he heard a thudding sound on the deck; a low 
exclamation; running footsteps. At the door he fum- 
bled with the lock, then stepped into the cross-corridor 
vestibule-way and rushed out upon the deck. 

A nearby deck-lamp shone in the mist like a nebula- 
ringed planet, shedding paltry light upon moist timbers 
and begrudgingly revealing a pale turban as it dis- 
appeared around a projection of the deckhouse. 

And there was not only one turban, for another fol- 
lowed the first! 

Trent threw a glance right and left; broke into a 


HSIEN SGAM 


161 


run, his bare feet padding on the damp planks ; paused 
at the corner of the deckhouse. A few yards beyond, 
a companionway spilled a plenitude of light. Voices 
came to him above the rumble of the steamer’s screws; 
a woman’s laugh. He stood motionless for a moment, 
hesitating; then, chagrined, returned to his cabin and 
switched on the light. 

No recess from intrigue, even on the ship ! Mystery 
ever at his heels. Was this another demonstration of 
the power whose hand he felt at Benares and Calcutta? 

He fastened the wingbolts upon the brass-bound port- 
glass; pulled the curtain to insure against observation 
from outside. Not until then did the glittering object 
at his feet capture his attention. As he saw it a charge, 
as of an electric current, tingled the length of his body. 
It seemed unreal, impossible — until he picked it up. 
The contact assured him it was no vision, that he held 
in his hand a coral silver-chased oval with a broken 
clasp — the pendant that he had found in Manlove’s 
dead fingers. 

Cold anticipation settled upon him. He inserted a 
fingernail under the band that bound the oval ; hesitated, 
stayed by a queer reluctance. He held what he be- 
lieved to be a key to the mystery of Manlove ’s death. A 
single move and the name engraved within would be dis- 
closed — the identity. . . . But suppose there was no 
name; suppose — 

He pressed under the silver band .... and a knock 
sounded on the door. 


162 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 
3 


Trent did not stir for a space of several seconds. 
Then, reluctantly, he placed the pendant under his 
pillow and opened the door. 

A grotesque effigy grinned at him. After an in- 
tent scrutiny he recognized Tambusami — Tambusami, 
turbanless, blood welling from a cut in his cheek, but, 
despite the wound, smiling. 

“I have him, Presence!” he announced. 

“Who?” 

The native looked amazed at what he evidently con- 
sidered gross stupidity, and elucidated : 

“The he-goat that came to your window! It was 
he who — ” 

Trent cut in. * ‘ Where is he ? ” 

“There, Presence!” — with an indefinite wave of his 
hand. ‘ ‘ By the wireless-house ! ’ ’ 

* 1 Why did n ’t you bring him here ? ’ ’ 

“ He is tied, Presence, to a — what do you call them ? ’ ’ 

“Go watch him,” Trent rapped. “I ’ll be there 
directly. ’ ’ 

Trent slipped into trousers and coat and made his 
way aft, up a flight of iron stairs, to the turn of the 
promenade deck. There, in the zone of greenish light 
cast from the door of the wireless-house, he beheld 
a startling tableau. 

Tambusani, in the grip of two white-uniformed men 
(from the wireless-house or the deck-watch, Trent sur- 
mised), was protesting and gesticulating excitedly to- 


HSIEN SGAM 


163 


ward a huddled figure by tlie rail. The latter was a 
native, bound to a stanchion with a pink turban-cloth 
the end of which was stuffed into his mouth. 

“I can vouch for that man/’ Trent announced crisply, 
coming up. “The other fellow” — pointing at the na- 
tive by the rail — “is a thief. He tried to enter my 
cabin. My servant happened along and followed him 
up here.” 

He saw, then, that one of the uniformed men wore 
chevrons of gold sparks; the other was a deck-steward. 
To the latter he spoke first. 

“Will you call the captain? I want a word with 
him. . . . Thanks.” Then to the wireless-operator: 
“I ’ll take charge of this fellow now. And you might 
keep this affair quiet.” 

The operator smiled wisely (he didn’t have to see 
credentials to spot ’em!) and withdrew into the room 
where the powerful machines buzzed and crackled. 

“Now, you fellow,” said Trent, removing the impro- 
vised gag from the “thief’s” mouth. “Who put you 
up to this?” 

Sullen eyes glowed. “Yonder devourer of pork lies, 
Sahib!” — with a venomous look at Tambusani. 

‘ 4 Son of a dog ! ’ ’ flung back the other. ‘ ‘ Mohammedan 
whelp!” 

“Stop it, both of you!” ordered Trent. “Tambu- 
sami, what have you to say?” 

One hand pressed to his cheek, Tambusami explained. 

“He is a liar and a thief, 0 Presence. It was he I 


164 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


caught in your room in Calcutta — who got away from 
me ! I recognized him as he passed me in the steerage — 
and I followed. He went to your cabin and — ” 

Trent broke in, directing a question at the suspected 
one. 

“Do you deny that?” 

“I am an honest man, Sahib!” — sullenness giving 
away to fright. ‘ ‘ That body -louse is a sink of lies ! ’ ’ 

Trent pressed on. “Will you tell me who gave you 
that — ? Well, you know what you dropped in my 
cabin.” 

“I am an honest man, Sahib! I was walking along 
the deck and — ” 

“Whose servant are you?” 

“No man's. My name is Guru Singh. I go to 
Rangoon to — ” 

“If you ’re not a servant, then you had no business 
out of the steerage. I ’m going to have you put in 
irons, and when we reach port you ’ll be taken up by the 
police — ” 

‘ ‘ No, no, Sahib ! By Allah, I am an honest man ! ’ ’ 

Trent reflected a moment before he spoke again. 
“You insist, then, that you didn’t drop — something — 
into my cabin?” 

“Yes, Sahib!” 

The captain arrived at that juncture, a subordinate at 
his heels. Trent explained to him what had happened, 
adding — a shade too darkly, he thought — certain words 
that impressed upon that worthy officer his authority 


HSIEN SGAM 


165 


to conclude with: “And I want him locked up.” 

The captain gave an order to his subordinate, who 
hastened away, and Trent addressed Guru Singh in 
Hindustani, which he felt certain the master of the 
vessel did not understand. 

“You w r ould rather be put in irons than tell who your 
master is ? ” 

“I have no master, Sahib!” 

“Very well. We will see how you feel about it to- 
morrow. ’ ’ 

Shortly two men appeared and led the protesting 
Guru Singh below — but not before Tambusami had 
rescued his turban-cloth. 

“It is defiled,” he said, looking at it regretfully and 
letting it drop over the rail. 

“Come with me,” directed Trent. “I ’ll take a look 
at your cut.” 

It was only a flesh wound Trent ascertained when 
they were in his state-room, and after bathing it in a 
sterilizing solution and binding it with an adhesive strip, 
he dismissed Tambusami with a brief commendation for 
his prowess. 

“It is nothing, 0 Presence,” declared the native, 
magnanimously. “With a lord who deals in magic 
medicines, why should not I watch over him, as a 
keeper over his cheetah?” 

And the Englishman was not quite certain that Tam- 
busami did n ’t wink as he went out. 

Subconsciously, Trent had been thinking all the 


166 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


while of the coral pendant; now it filled his mind. 
Again he felt the chill anticipation. His hand shook as 
he jerked aside the pillow; shook, as he stared in 
blank stupefaction. 

The oval was not there. 

As yet scarcely believing, he stripped back the sheet ; 
turned over the mattress ; searched every crevice of the 
berth. But the pendant had disappeared. It rather 
dazed him. Stolen. Once more a mysterious hand had 
reached out and spirited away the oval. One thing it 
proved: that there were two elements at work, lurking 
elements. But how swiftly! He was gone only a few 
minutes! .... Why in thundering hades hadn’t he 
looked inside before he went on deck? What a monu- 
mental fool! 

Which verifies for the millionth time the truth of a 
certain fable about an Equus caballus and a stable. 

4 

The next morning in the dining-salon Trent saw 
Dana Charteris, merely a glimpse — a smile and a nod. 
She was at a table across the room. However, later, as 
he was moving toward the purser’s office, he came upon 
her aft on the promenade deck, elbows upon the rail, 
eyes upon the steerage. She turned as his step sounded 
behind her. 

“Isn’t it glorious?” was her greeting, motioning to- 
ward the sea w T here the sun had painted a glittering 
dragon on the intense blue. 

“Quite,” he agreed, having forgotten the purser in 


HSIEN SGAM 167 

the eternal wonder of her eyes. “I hope you weren’t 
ill last night?” 

“Not physically. I was doing penance.” 

“I shouldn’t think that would require all evening.” 

A smile. “Would you like to become father-con- 
fessor ? ’ ’ 

“Perhaps.” 

She let her eyes rest upon him in a curious, con- 
templative look. 

“How absolutely British!” she remarked. “An 
American would have agreed instantly, but you, being 
British, only commit yourself half-way.” 

“Isn’t that diplomacy?” he asked, entering into her 
mood. She was revealing another side of her nature. 
Each time he saw her she unfolded more and bared to his 
gaze new and stimulating mysteries of her personality. 

“Perhaps. But I sha’n’t confess to you now — just 
for that. ... I understand you didn’t have a very 
quiet night.” 

The only surprise he betrayed was a tightening of 
the muscles of the jaw. 

“Really?” 

Her smile grew into a laugh. “Show some surprise, 
Stone-man, instead of trying to impress me with the 
fact that you ’ve suddenly acquired an interest down 
there” — her white hand flashed toward the steerage. 
“You ’re wondering how I know it, and seething with 
curiosity. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t.” 

“I ’m not” — forcing a smile. “But if you wish it, 
then how clo you know it ? ” 


168 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Well, it ’s considered excellent marine etiquette to 
visit the wireless-house and worry the operator when 
one is bored — as I happened to be this morning 
in the interim between my rising hour and break- 
fast — ” 

“And as feminine charm is an ‘Open Sesame’ to the 
secrets of wireless-operators,” Trent finished up, “this 
particular one told all he knew. ’ ’ 

“Am I to accept that as flattery?” 

“Is it?” he countered; then, eager to learn just how 
much she knew, he remarked casually: “Thieves are 
thick as mosquitoes in Asiatic countries. ’ ’ 

“I know,” was her unsatisfactory response, and, 
proof that a woman can be quite uncommunicative when 
she wishes, she diverted conversation into another 
channel. “I ’m afraid, Mr. Tavernake, I ’ve impressed 
you as being — well, a foolish flippant child.” 

His eyes met hers — barely a second. 

“Why should you think that?” 

She shrugged. “Oh, my endless talk of — of travel.” 

He took out his pipe, asked permission to smoke ; filled 
the bowl and lighted it before he quoted: 

We are those blind fools who could not rest 
In the dull earth we left behind. . . . 

She took him up : “Does n’t it go on with — ” 

The world where wise men live at ease 
Fades from our unregretful eyes, 

And blind across uncharted seas 
We stagger on our enterprise. 


HSIEN SGAM 


169 


He nodded. While she was speaking he thought of 
the andante appassionato comparison. Music always — 
she was that to him. 

‘ ‘ Uncharted seas ! ’ ’ she repeated. ‘ ‘ They ’ve al- 
ways lured me. I felt the call, but could n ’t understand 
it until I read a tale several years ago. ‘The White 
Waterfall’ it was called. It seemed to open magic doors. 
After that, ‘Treasure Island’ again, and ‘She.’ Steven- 
son, Kipling, Conrad and Haggard — they are the mas- 
ters that taught me the doctrine of Romance and Ad- 
venture. Oh, I ’ve always wanted a crowded hour — 
excitement — the sting of winds not in books! I think 
after one excursion into the reality I ’d be willing to 
settle back into my peaceful alcove of imaginings. Then 
I ’d have food for my fancies — something to remember 
in the quiet that followed. Don’t you think it would be 
alluring, in mellower years, to close your eyes and 
dream — of wanderings in the ‘Caves of Kor’ — or the 
time you spent on a pirate island ? ’ ’ 

“It ’s youth,” he philosophized to himself. “Youth 
craving the open spaces; hours of breathless living!” 

“It would,” he said aloud. 

“But perhaps” — her voice sank to a dreamy tempo — 
“perhaps I ’m having my adventure now.” 

(And many days passed before he understood what 
she really meant by that.) 

Below them, in the steerage, a snake-charmer — a 
villainous-looking fellow with a scar across one cheek 
and a drooping eyelid — was making two cobras ripple 
to the sounds of a reed flageolet. The eerie, tuneless 


170 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


wails were reminiscent of the previous night when Trent 
stood on the same spot and looked below. 

“What would you think, Mr. Tavernake, ” the girl 
began, her voice very solemn, “if you discovered that 
some one whom you trusted and believed your friend 
was secretly striving for the thing you were working 
for. Would you call it fair competition?” 

He applied a match to his burnt-out pipe, then re- 
garded her — quite as intently as she regarded him. 

“Are you making me father-confessor, after all?” 

She laughed, thus ending a very solemn moment. 

‘ 1 Good heavens, no ! . . . . But come, shall we take a 
walk?” 

They tramped about the ship for nearly an hour ; then 
he established her comfortably in a deck-chair and sat 
down at her side. They talked, mostly frivolously — 
conversation that only now and then carried a vein of 
seriousness. Not until after tiffin (he sat at her table, 
for she quite naively suggested that he have the steward 
change his seat) did they part, she for her cabin, he 
for the purser’s office, which place he suddenly remem- 
bered as his goal when he came on deck earlier in the 
day. 

He consulted the passenger-list, lingering over each 
name in search of one that might seem likely as that of 
the person who had directed Guru Singh’s activities. 
There were thirty-one first-class passengers, the majority 
English, with a scattering of Americans ; the only East- 
erns were, namely, an Indian gentleman (Dr. Dhan 
Gopal Singh, of Calcutta University, his signature 


HSIEN SGAM 


171 


read), a Japanese and Hsien Sgam. Of the group onl y 
one seemed likely, and he by virtue of his name and 
nationality — Dr. Dahn Gopal Singh. 

Trent then sought the captain and after a short con- 
versation (during which he made a request that seemed 
rather extraordinary to the master of the Manchester ) 
he visited the imprisoned Guru Singh. Abuses, threats, 
even promises of clemency, brought forth only: “I 
am an honest man, Sahib ! ’ ’ 

His next move was to visit the steerage. A naked 
child with a ring in its nose begged for a gift; brown 
bodies lay asleep on mats ; the cobras were still perform- 
ing for the wicked-looking juggler. Stupid, unintelli- 
gent faces 

On the fore-deck a dark-skinned gentleman in 
European clothing was talking with the clergyman to 
whom the Mongol had expressed his beliefs the 
previous night. The former, Trent guessed, was Dr. 
Dhan Gopal Singh. One glance eliminated him as 
a suspect. 

5 

Toward dusk the captain of the ship approached 
Trent in his deck-chair. 

“One of my men searched the steerage/’ he said, 
“and there wasn’t a sign of the ornament you de- 
scribed.” Then politely, if not a little curiously, “Was 
it 0 f — er — particular value ? ’ ’ 

“It had its significance,” was Trent’s meager reply. 

“It ’s quite distressing, quite, to have thieves aboard. 


172 CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

But in these waters. ... Is there anything else I can 
do for you?” 

There was n’t. And Trent went to his cabin to shave. 

After dinner he and Dana Charteris walked another 
mile around the vessel; stood for some time in the bow, 
watching the flying-fish skim the glassy undulations in 
greenish, phosphorescent flashes ; sat in their deck- 
chairs in the shadow of a looming cabin (and the spell 
of low-hung Oriental stars) and talked of inconsequen- 
tials. 

For some time after she left, he sat sunken in cavern- 
ous absorption. He was aroused by a voice close by — a 
quiet familiar voice that asked if it were not a rare 
night. He turned to see a tall figure near his chair. 
Starlight dwelt on even mobile features, a high fore- 
head, slender hands and eyes that looked inquisitively 
into his. 

He answered that it was indeed a rare night. Where- 
upon Hsien Sgam politely enquired if he might occupy 
the chair next to Trent ’s. As he moved, the Englishman 
noticed that he slued slightly to the left — saw the twisted 
limb. The Mongol lit a cigarette. The flare of the 
match brought his face into ruddy prominence. In that 
brief moment Trent felt that ancient wickedness, refined 
to an exquisite degree, looked at him from beneath the 
bronze lids ; then the match died and Hsien Sgam spoke 
in his quiet cultured voice, and Trent realized to what 
fantastic borders imagination can extend. 

The Oriental asked perfunctorily if Trent intended to 
remain long in Rangoon, and ventured that it was a 


HSIEN SGAM 


173 


very quaint city; and, quite as perfunctorily, Trent re- 
sponded that he was n ’t sure how long he ’d be in 
Rangoon, and that from all he ’d heard it must be very 
quaint. Conversation threatened to pursue a dull 
course until Trent opened the subject of the political 
situation in Mongolia. 

'‘Ah, Mongolia!” Hsien Sgam drew a deep breath. 
“It is there as it is elsewhere in the East. The Holy 
Lands, as you call them, are dead — sterile as eunuchs. 
Ghandi preaches — is Swaraj the word? — in India; China 
is locked in inner convulsions; Japan is a dragon with 
fire in its nostrils ; Korea and Manchuria are but mani- 
kins that act as Tokyo directs; Siam, Indo-China, Ma- 
laya and Burma are the only peaceful spheres, and their 
people are children, thoughtless children. Asia has red 
wrath in her bowels. I am afraid for her. But Mon- 
golia — you asked about Mongolia? .... 

“The world moves in cycles,” the Easterner contin- 
ued. “It is the inexorable law. Asia was at its — er 
— pinnacle about twelve hundred and twenty-seven ; 
then Europe. Europe is dipping; next America — and 
after that?” The slender hands shaped into an oddly 
expressive gesture. “The failure of Sultan Baber was 
the beginning of a slow death for my country. Now 
there seems but one future — that of a base from which 
Japan can operate in Asia. Japan must have food, too, 
and already the Szechuanese and other border people 
have pressed into Mongolia and proved it fertile. And 
we have unworked mineral resources. ...” 

“But Japan is apparently retrenching in her pol- 


174 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


icy,” Trent reminded him, finding himself interested. 
“What of the Allied Consortium?” 

He imagined he could see a smile upon the Mongol’s 
face. 

“The Consortium is — forgive me — a bubble, a beauti- 
ful bubble with magic prisms and exquisite tints. 
Japan will see to it that loans to China are made as 
she wishes them.” 

“Japan improved Korea” — thus baiting conversa- 
tion. 

The reply came quietly, but vehemently. “Yes, my 
friend, Japan improved Korea. She scientifically re- 
forested its mountains, built roads and railways, public 
buildings and sanitary houses. . . . But Japan slew 
soul to erect in its stead a structure without conscience 
or heart. Japan may improve China — but it is not for 
China, but for the time when Japan controls China and 
compels her four hundred millions to form a unit of her 
military organization.” 

Quiet ensued for a space. The myriad sounds that 
brew in the bowels of a vessel came to them — the jangle 
of bells, smothered by decks, and the ponderous, deep- 
throated roar of funnels. 

“An example of Japan’s purpose and her power is 
the cancellation of Mongolian autonomy,” pursued 
Hsien Sgam. “When my people formed a government 
of their own, they expected the protection of Russia. 
But Russia failed. Semenov, the Cossack adventurer 
and agent of Japan, threatened invasion, and my people, 
frightened, appealed to China. The consequences you 


HSIEN SGAM 


175 


know. Hsu Shu-cheng, with four thousand troops, 
occupied Urga. Hsu forced the Hut’ukt’u to sign a 
petition returning Mongolia to China. Later it was 
learned that Hsu’s troops were equipped with Japanese 
money. ’ 9 

Trent settled deeper in his chair, his eyes lifted to the 
roaring funnels where volumes of smoke were sucked up 
as by invisible vacua. 

“But there is a key to supremacy in Mongolia,” 
Hsien Sgam resumed. “It is the projected extension 
of the railway from Kalgan to Kiachta. Whoever 
finances that, thus linking China with Europe, through 
Mongolia, will be the sovereign power. Will Japan— or 
your Allied Consortium ? I think, my friend, the 
former — unless it is prevented. And how can that be 
done?” 

Trent took him up. “How?” 

Hsien Sgam did not answer immediately. Finally: 

“Mongolia can assert her rights — by force.” 

Trent lowered his eyes to the indistinct outline of the 
Mongol ’s face. 

“She hasn’t arms or ammunition or organization — 
and, furthermore, what good would a revolution do?” 

Hsien Sgam answered the latter half of his question. 

“It would give Mongolia self-government; and she 
could refuse a concession to any power to construct a 
railway through her territory. Organization? You 
spoke of that. No, they have no organization. But I 
have a dream — an ultimate — do you say Utopia? It is 
a union of the Mongols of Barga, the Buriats of Trans- 


176 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


baikalia, the Chakhar tribe, the Khalkas, and even the 
Hung-hu-tzees, into a single unit — or, if you wish it, an 
empire. Tibet might be included. But that — that is 
only a dream. There is but one man who could possibly 
bring that about — and he is a pawn of China. The 
Dalai Lama. ...” 

In the pause that followed, the glow of his cigarette 
showed Trent an imperial profile — like a bronze head of 
some Mongol conqueror he had once seen. A queer 
analogy struck him. Timur the Lame, who seared Asia 
with his vitriol. But there was an alien element in the 
likeness that he conjured — dust on the reflection. It 
haunted Trent and eluded analysis. 

“The Church dominates Mongolia,” the quiet voice 
went on, “and the Dalai Lama is its — how do you 
say it, Pope? He lost much power when the English 
drove him from Lhassa, but after years of wandering 
he came into his pontificate again. However, the Pres- 
ident of China had a purpose in restoring him. He 
knew the power of Tubdan Gyatso — knew also that he 
would be safer in Tibet than Mongolia.” 

They smoked on. Presently Trent asked other ques- 
tions, about customs and people and history. The sub- 
ject swung to literature. Hsien Sgam talked at ran- 
dom of Chinese philosophers and poets: Confucius, 
Mencius, Lao Tzii, Yang Chu, Kang-hsi. There were 
giant dimensions of mentality behind his speech. Every 
word was surcharged with restless energy ; thoughts hot 
from the vortices of emotion. But, underneath, was a 
current of bitterness that surged up at intervals and 


HSIEN SGAM 


177 


injected into his usual calm a passionate, almost terrible, 
intensity. It was more evident when he referred to his 
affliction. 

4 ‘My father, who was a prince of the house of Hlaje 
Khan, believed that one of his sons should be sent into 
your world and acquire learning and enlighten the 
people,” he said. “I, being lame and never entering 
into physical activities, was considered a student — and 
I was sent. Among the elders it was looked upon as an 
honor, but those with whom I played as a boy and grew 
up ... . Well, in Mongolia, as elsewhere, virtue is in 
muscle and cowardice in morality. I went into your 
world and — I say this with no meanness — it hurt me. 
I took back wounds. Many things I was taught, among 
them a realization of the truth of a certain Manchu 
proverb about women. Yes — I wonder, my friend, why 
I tell you this, but perhaps it is the night and the sea — a 
woman entered my life for the first time — a woman who 
came as a leopard and left the mark of her claws.’ ’ 

As he talked on, unfolding with a readiness that 
puzzled yet did not fail to interest Trent, the latter 
closed his eyes and smoked, and imagined he was trans- 
ported, through some reversed medium of metemp- 
sychosis, across a dead interval of time and was listen- 
ing to the voice of Timur the Lame. The stars drowsed 
above them, like sleepy eyes, and the ship was a dim, 
prowling world when they parted. 

As Trent undressed he reflected upon the conversation 
with Hsien Sgam. He felt that he had looked upon a 
tragic anomaly in the person of the lame Mongol. 


178 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Learning had refined his primitive impulses to a higher 
degree of intellectuality ; affliction had warped his 
vision. Civilization, with him, was a varnish; he did 
not possess its essence. In a day less modern, when men 
were not so well equipped to kill one another, he might 
have risen to formidability; now, Trent felt, he could 
go no further than that group of idealistic radicals 
whose careers are meteoric, attaining little political 
significance and ending in the pathetic justice of a fir- 
ing squad. 

He wondered, too, if the encounter on deck was co- 
incidence, or if Hsien Sgam had deliberately sought him. 
The Mongol would bear watching, he decided, simply for 
the reason that his own position was one of insecurity 
and tampering fingers might send it toppling. 

Until he went to sleep the memory of Hsien Sgam 
haunted him, like the shadow of Timur the Lame cast 
down through the centuries. 

6 

Morning and another day of peacock-blue and gold. 

After breakfast Trent visited the confined Guru Singh. 
The native was no more communicative than before but 
Trent did not press his point, for a better plan than 
blatant questioning had asserted itself. 

When he returned to the deck he found Dana Char- 
ters stretched out in her chair, her slim person a sym- 
phony in white. 

“Good morning,” was her greeting as she motioned 


HSIEN SGAM 179 

him into the chair beside her. “I reached a very def- 
inite decision last night.” 

He smiled. Andantino con languor e this time. 
There was a refreshing draught in the mood that he in- 
stantly felt — light, golden wine to the senses. Her 
eyes were like liquid amber. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. I used to think that all Englishmen were cold- 
mannered creatures and quite indifferent to their wives, 
as fiction has it. I ’ve undergone a metamorphosis.” 

He continued to smile as he packed his pipe. 

“Are you accusing us as a nation of polygamous prac- 
tices ? ” he asked. 

She made a grimace. “Please don’t try to be clever 
or you ’ll spoil my opinion — and you know countries 
are judged by single representatives. I warn you that 
I ’m in a desperately serious mood, despite all in- 
dications. As proof, I ’ve been wondering if too much 
travel, too long a sojourn in foreign lands, doesn’t 
affect one’s ideas and philosophies — in other words, in- 
toxicate one and leave a craving for the wine of exotic 
environment. ’ ’ 

Pie contemplated the possibility that her remark was 
intended as personal; dismissed it; waited for her to 
continue. Which she did. 

“Since you won’t be human and ask why I think that, 
you force me to confess that I ’m leading up to a — a 
personal example.” 

“Namely?” 


180 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Well — y ourself. ” 

Another smile; he lighted his pipe. “Go on.” 

“Really, would you be satisfied in a prosaic English 
or American city — after — all this?” — with a vague 
gesture. 

He didn’t know; hadn’t thought about it. Per- 
haps — perhaps not. 

“I don’t believe you would,” was her opinion. 
“You ’ve absorbed a certain amount of atmosphere that 
has poisoned you in so far as living elsewhere is con- 
cerned. I shouldn’t be at all surprised, either, to learn 
that you think Indian and Chinese religions superior to 
ours?” 

“Are n’t they?” 

“Are they?” 

“You, yourself, spoke a few days ago, if I remember 
correctly, of the philosophies and doctrines of the East 
— doctrines that have nothing to do with mints or stock- 
exchanges, as you expressed it.” 

“Yes. But now I ’m comparing the principles of 
religion — those adopted by our thinkers and real philos- 
ophers. Oh, we have our nobler types, who haven’t 
been blinded by earth-dust! It may be a taint of the 
flesh in me, but I can’t adjust myself to the belief that 
the ascetics and shrivelled yogis that I ’ve seen are the 
proper habitations for pure spirituality. If the mani- 
festation isn’t wholesome, how can the inner conception 
be? You wouldn’t fill an unclean vessel with holy 
water, would you? It ’s the methods and instruments 
through which the East voices its philosophies that I 


HSIEN SGAM 


181 


rebel against. That which mutilates, or even neglects, 
the body, can’t be a true religion. . . . But really, I ’m 
afraid I ’m getting beyond my depth. What I origin- 
ally intended to say is this: occultism is dangerous to 
those of the West, minds and bodies of a different sub- 
stance than those of the Orient. I knew a man who 
became interested in theosophy. After a time he entered 
some secret cult that had a temple in the Himalayas. 
It grew to be an obsession, and now .... well, he tried 
to touch flames that were not conceived for man-tamper- 
ing and they seared him.” 

Trent chuckled. “In other words,” he said, “you ’re 
afraid I ’m a Buddhist or a Mohammedan at heart, or, 
if by good fortune I ’m not, you wish to warn me against 
exotic religions.” Another chuckle. “It ’s flattering. 
What other conclusions have you drawn?” 

“Just at present,” she responded, smiling maliciously, 
“I think you ’re horrid.” 

He sobered. “Please go on. It ’s like looking into 
your house from the neighbor’s window. I ’m really 
interested. ’ ’ 

“Or curious? Men who have not ventured into 
matrimony are, as a rule, inquisitive. And that sug- 
gests another question. It seems to me that one alone 
would be much more receptive to these” — she smiled — 
“these paganisms than one in union with another. 
Loneliness — that is, isolation — is food for heresies.” 

That showed him an old vista at a new angle. There 
was no misinterpreting her meaning. . . . Women. 
A few, but none of consequence; puerile passions and 


182 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


brief affairs of the starlight, never the full ruddy glow 
of a riper devotion, the finding of the One Woman. 
. . . And again, that might not have been her meaning 
at all. She — At a sudden inspiration he spoke — be- 
fore he considered. 

“Why, no, I ’m not married, if that ’s what you 
mean. ’ ’ 

She gave him a queer look — half smiling, half vexed. 
There was a faint suffusion of color in her cheeks. 

“I ’m not quite sure,” she announced, swinging her 
feet to the deck, “but I ’ve almost decided that you ’re 
impossible. However, I ’ll leave you alone to decide for 
yourself.” 

And she did. 

7 

At dinner Trent sensed a change in Dana Charteris. 
She was quite friendly, even inquired banteringly if he 
were angry because of the manner in which she left 
him that morning, but there was, invisible, indefinable, 
a reserve in her attitude that forbade a resumption of 
the former intimacy. This troubled him. 

Later, on deck, he was brought out of his reflections 
by the sound of uneven footsteps. Hsien Sgam ap- 
proached. He was dressed in white and seemed to Trent 
almost grotesque — the twisted limb and the beauti- 
ful, yet strangely sinister, face! 

In the course of conversation he asked Trent’s busi- 
ness. The answer brought forth a short discourse upon 
precious stones. He then touched the war — inquired 


HSIEN SGAM 


183 


if Trent had “seen service/’ as he termed it in a 
thoroughly Occidental way. Realizing that he was be- 
ing catechized, Trent replied guardedly. In the East, 
quizzed the Mongol? No, on the Western front, Trent 
lied. In the infantry, Hsien Sgam assumed? Yes, the 
infantry. . . . 

Of course Trent had traveled a great deal, he pre- 
sumed. Well, a bit, the Englishman admitted. If it 
were not too impertinent (thus the Mongol) he imagined 
Mr. Tavernake had not always been “of the trade.” 
He had the appearance of — well, a soldier rather than 
a “business man”; one eager for ranges and color and 
action, so to speak. 

It was then that Trent became more communicative. 
He was rather a soldier of fortune, he acknowledged; 
intrigue lured him. But the Mongol was as wary as he, 
for, perceiving the change in tactics, he turned the talk 
into another channel. 

A few minutes later he moved on. Trent watched 
him limp off and puzzled over this anomaly of a man. 
What was his object in catechizing him? He could not 
even surmise; but he determined to take a drastic step 
toward finding out. 

His first move led him to the purser’s office. Closing 
the door quietly behind him, he said: 

“I would like to borrow your pass-key a moment.” 

‘ ‘ Sorry, sir, ’ ’ came the polite reply, 1 ‘ but it ’s against 
orders. I can unlock your door — if you ’ve lost the key 
— but — ” 

“Suppose you call the captain,” Trent suggested. 


184 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Tell him Mr. Tavernake wants to borrow the key* 
I ’ll be responsible for it.” 

While the purser was telephoning, Trent scanned the 
register. “Hsien Sgam — No. 227,” he read. 

“It ’s all right, sir , 9 ’ reported the purser, hanging up 
the receiver, a new note of respect in his voice. 

Trent circled the deck, assured himself that Hsien 
Sgam was in the smoking-room, then went aft to cabin 
No. 227. A turn of the key, a glance behind into the 
vestibule-way, and he was inside. He locked the door; 
drew the curtain across the window. 

A thorough search gained him little knowledge. Only 
clothing and a hand-grip containing perfunctory toilet 
articles; there were no letters, not even a passport. 
Evidently the Mongol carried all papers of importance 
upon his person. 

Hardly assured, yet satisfied to a degree, Trent re- 
turned the key to the purser and made his way toward 
his cabin — and as he rounded a corner of the deckhouse 
he almost collided with Dana Charteris. She backed, 
half in surprise, half in fright, to the rail, and gripped 
the white enameled iron. 

“Oh!” she flared. “You da appear at the most in- 
opportune times!” 

And she stalked past him, entering the cabin before 
he could recover himself enough to speak. 

Perplexed, he continued to his state-room. “Inop- 
portune, indeed,” he muttered as he closed the door — 
for as she darted to the rail he saw her fling something 


HSIEN SGAM 185 

overboard, an object that flashed white as it shot past 
the scuppers. 

He sat down on the edge of the berth; filled his pipe. 

What was she carrying that she did not want him to 
see? It could not have been of value or she would not 
have disposed of it in that manner. But . . . 

He ran his fingers through his hair; puffed on his 
pipe. 

Was it possible — ? No, the very suspicion was pre- 
posterous; he was surprised that it should even occur 
to him. Yet, he acknowledged, a certain king of Ithaca 
believed in the beauty of Calypso. Forcing himself to 
face the situation, he reviewed his short acquaintance 
with Dana Charteris in a cold, scrutinizing light. The 
result was not altogether pleasing. Their midnight en- 
counter on the portico at Benares was hardly reassuring, 
now that he looked at it through a different lens, nor 
was the meeting in the Chinese quarter, in Calcutta. 
. . . Intermezzo! Would it end in discord? He smiled 
grimly, confessing to himself that grave doubts (and, 
deeper than doubts, an ache that was not physical) had 
arisen from this new development. Had he been a 
fool? 

He fortified his mind against such thoughts. What 
substantial reason had he to suspect that her interest 
in him was other than personal? (Personal! That 
word was fine ego.) The incident on deck — Well, 
he evaded, it might have been anything that she threw 
overboard, a handkerchief ... or. ... At least, he 


186 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


would not be so unjust as to suspicion her — or anyone, 
he enlarged — upon such meager suppositions. 

Only partially satisfied, he retired. He did not go 
to sleep for some time — and when he awakened in the 
morning, with the sun raining bronze needles at the 
blue sea, his first recollection was of the incident on 
the previous night. Considered in daylight, it lost its 
dark significance, but, nevertheless, made him vaguely 
uneasy. 

This brooding discontent grew with the da} 7 . Dana 
Charteris was not in the dining-salon at breakfast, nor 
did she come on deck during the morning. He sat near 
her chair, waiting, his mind barred against either con- 
demnation or justification. He would reserve his de- 
cision until he heard what she had to say. When she 
appeared (and it seemed that she never would) she 
could probably clear the incident with a few words, an 
explanation that would no doubt shed a light of absurd- 
ity upon his apprehensions. 

But she did not appear, not even at tiffin, and he 
passed a restless afternoon. He walked the vessel from 
bow to stern, from bridge to the torrid depths where 
beings heaved fuel into her hungry stomach, impatient 
with the unseen forces that controlled his affairs. 

He saw Hsien Sgam several times, but avoided him, 
for his mood was not a friendly one. A short inter- 
view with Guru Singh — who clung to the integrity of 
his honor — only served to irritate him, and a few 
minutes later when he came upon Tambusami, in the 
steerage, confabbing with the snake-charmer (he of the 


HSIEN SGAM 


1ST 


scar and the drooping eyelid) he snapped him up in 
his laconic way for having removed the dressing from 
his cut. 

(And it would not have improved his mental estate 
had he seen the manner in which the snake-charmer’s 
afflicted eye watched him leave the steerage.) 

The sun sank. Its sullen crimson bled upon cirrus 
clouds; faded with dusk; was absorbed as night bound 
the sky with gauzy blue and stars came forth to cool the 
fevered pulse of day. 

Trent had just taken his seat in the dining-salon when 
Dana Charteris entered. White shoulders rose above 
the silver-cloth and flame-blue tulle of an evening frock. 
The startling shade of blue challenged out the deeper 
tints of her eyes; her pallor was made more lustrous by 
red lips and russet-gold hair. At sight of her he felt 
the blood throb in his throat. 

“I hope you haven’t been ill,” he said as he placed 
her chair. 

She smiled in a rather strained manner, he thought. 

“I ’ve been a poor sailor to-day.” 

A pause; then he plunged. “I shomid like to have 
a word with you — alone.” 

She met his gaze unsmilingly. For a moment he 
thought she would refuse. 

“There ’s to be a dance to-night — you knew it?” He 
shook* his head. “Suppose I give you— the third?” 

“I ’d prefer not to dance,” he returned solemnly. 

“Then we ’ll go on deck.” 


188 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 
8 


The night was blue and moonless; no ordinary blue, 
but the clear, rich shade found in the depths of a 
sapphire, and it poured out as from an invisible foun- 
tain, blending the sky and sea; it caught a thousand 
stars in its flood and they, like diamonds cast into an 
unstirred pool, pulsed with lazy insolence above the 
oily swells. 

Trent, leaning on the port rail, pipe between his 
teeth, heard the throbbing violins cease. He straight- 
ened up sharply. There was a patter of applause from 
the main salon ; an encore. He knocked the dottle from 
his pipe and sauntered nearer the doorway; there he 
waited impatiently for the encore to end. 

Once more the violins ceased; a ripple of applause. 
But the music did not resume. Several couples emerged 
from the salon. Dana Charteris appeared as Trent was 
within several paces of the door; paused a moment in 
the frame, her hair glimmering in the brazen light. 
Then she saw him; joined him. 

“Shall we walk?’ she asked. He thought there was 
a tremor in her voice. 

“Yes.” 

Their mutual inclination led them toward the fore- 
deck. In the bow, beyond a monster coil of rope, they 
halted as with one accord. He stood looking out over 
the blue-black sea; she backward, across decks, at the 
huge funnels where smoke piled upward into darkness. 

“Miss Charteris,” he began, quite calmly, “I dare- 
say you know why I asked for a word with you.” 


HS1EN SGAM 


189 


She was still watching the smoke. ‘ ‘ I daresay I do, ’ ’ 
she replied, not so calmly. 

He went on. 

“I ’m going to be frank — even abrupt. Will you tell 
me what you threw overboard last night?” 

Silence followed. The big ship throbbed, but it 
seemed far away, part of another world; in his sphere 
there was but the girl, himself and the stars. He 
thought he saw her shiver — although it was not 
chilly. 

Finally she spoke. 

“Before I answer, there ’s something I must say. 
You are frank; I, too, will be frank.” Her eyes shifted 
to his face. “I feel sure you ’re aware that I am not 
so stupid as to believe your name is Tavernake — or 
that you are a — a jeweller. Furthermore, you know I 
saw you in uniform in Benares. Your story about the 
brother was — rather flat.” She smiled faintly. “I ’m 
no child, Mr. — yes, I ’ll continue to call you Tavernake. 
I have imagination ; I have guessed you are engaged in 
some sort of important work — work that you must not 
be distracted from. At first, I didn’t care — particu- 
larly — or perhaps I was weak. So I let myself drift 
along. It ’s so easy to drift, isn’t it?” 

A new tone had come into her voice; a softer, more 
poignant quality. It carried to him a lofty exhilara- 
tion. He knew it was dangerous, yet, for the while, it 
thrilled him. The looming masts beyond the coil of 
rope were transformed, in his eyes, into the enchanted 
rigging of a dream ship. 


190 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“. . . So I took the easiest course — because I found 
you interesting. Then it suddenly occurred to me that 
perhaps I was interfering with your duty. I knew I 
must stop. I resolved to — to end our friendship as 
easily as possible, without hurting you — or me. I hoped, 
after my outburst last night, you wouldn’t try to see 
me again; that you ’d be angry.” 

She smiled ; let her hand rest lightly, he knew uncon- 
sciously, upon his arm. 

“You understand? To-day I was — well, afraid of 
you and of myself. I had my meals served in my state- 
room. But I realized I had acted in a way that would 
seem strange to you ; so I came out to-night to explain. 
If I give you my word that what I did last night is of 
no consequence to you, will you spare me the embar- 
rassment of explaining? It will be embarrassing, Mr. 
Tavernake, very. Yet it was such a small incident !” 

Her hand slipped from his arm ; she lowered her eyes. 
Trent, watching her, felt that at last he had explored 
to the inner shrine of that arcanum in her eyes. He 
saw altar-flames there. 

“Don’t you think it wise,” she resumed, looking up, 
“that we discontinue our association — not our friend- 
ship — now, to-night? To-morrow, in Rangoon. ...” 

Her voice died out in silence. They were quite alone, 
there in the bow, lifted, so it seemed, into a realm of 
blue starlight. Her face swam in the shadow, very 
close to his own. He obeyed an impulse. He took her 
in his arms; kissed her. Her eyes were closed, but an 
instant later the lids lifted. What he saw was not 


HSIEN SGAM 


191 


rebuke, but surprise, astonishment. Vaguely, from that 
other world, came the strains of music. It seemed an 
endless period before she spoke. 

“I — I have this dance. ...” 

She turned; paused, as if to speak; disappeared be- 
hind the coil of rope. 

Trent did not stir for some time. Then it was to 
draw out his pipe. He lighted it calmly; inhaled the 
smoke. For at least a half hour he stood there, the wind 
in his face, smoking steadily. When he left the bow and 
moved aft to walk, to accelerate his brain, a figure 
emerged from the door of the smoking-room and joined 
him. A figure that limped, that fell in with Trent. 

“I have been looking for you,” the Mongol announced. 

Trent smiled an amiable contradiction of his real 
feelings. 

“Shall we sit down?” He halted. 

“No. I merely wish a moment of your time to 
explain my actions of last night, and to ask a question. ’ ’ 

The orchestra was playing, and the music came as 
a bitter-sweet reminder to Trent. 

“Well?” and the word was almost abrupt. 

“I presume you think me very inquisitive” — Hsien 
Sgam’s eyes were upon him, watching him closely — 
“and I have been. But I had a purpose. I wished to 
sound you, as they say in America ; to find out if your 
business connections were permanent, and — well, other 
things, too.” 

Silence followed. 

“Suppose,” the Mongol resumed, “I were to say 


192 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


that plans for such a — you recall what we discussed the 
other evening? Well, suppose I were to say I spoke 
the truth: that there is a possibility of my dream 
crystallizing into reality; also that we need men who 
have had military experience, who can command. 
Soldiers of fortune, as it were, to cast their lots with 
a worthy cause. ...” 

Trent’s eyes evenly met his. He smiled, very slightly. 

“Are you — making an offer?” he asked quietly. 

Another silence. Then Hsien Sgam laughed. 

“Perhaps I am; perhaps I am not. But if you are 
interested, go to the House of the Golden Joss, in 
Rangoon, to-morrow night. I will be there.” 

And with that he limped off and vanished in the door 
of the smoking-room. 

Trent stared after him. Presently he laughed, with- 
out humor. 

Of a certainty, he told himself, there was madness in 
the night. 

9 

The Manchester swung into the Rangoon River some 
twenty hours late. Trent, who had risen early, saw the 
dome of the Shwe Dagon in the dawn, like a rippling 
flame against the purple haze. Before the ship dropped 
anchor, he sought the captain. 

“I ’ve decided not to press charges against the fellow 
confined below,”’ he announced. “Let him go — but 
not until a half hour after we come to anchor.” 

The captain, his eyes following Trent’s receding 


HSIEN SGAM 


193 


shoulders, reflected that he ’d see the blighter in blaz- 
ing hades before he ’d let him off so easily. But, not 
being clairvoyant, he could not know that Trent had 
a few minutes before issued certain specific instructions 
to Tambusami. 

Later, after Trent had concluded with the tiresome 
customs details, he saw Dana Charteris. She was pre- 
paring to go ashore. She wore the black hat with the 
sheaf of cornflowers and wheat about the crown, and 
her face, shadowed by the wide brim, had the pallor of 
ivory. 

“I suppose I ought to say something,’ ’ he began, 
halting in front of her, “but I don’t know whether I 
want to ask your forgiveness for what occurred last 
night. ’ ’ 

It was a strained moment, for both were painfully 
conscious. She averted her face. 

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “it would be better to say 
— nothing. ’ ’ 

Then she looked at him; smiled; extended her hand. 

Not until she was gone, a creature of white and russet- 
gold in the sunshine, did he remember that he did not 
know her address. This realization brought a new and 
enveloping sense of isolation. . . . Interlude! And 
his was the end — andante dolento! 


CHAPTER VII 


THE VERMILION ROOM 

S UNSET, like the wings of a giant golden moth, 
quivered in the sky and beat gently against the 
city, stirring from the earth a film of dust that, illumi- 
nated by the lingering glow, hung in the air like yellow 
pollen. Gold was the sovereign tone of every quarter. 
In the Shwe Dagon numerous Buddhas smiled at the 
vain splendor of goldleaf and gold-fretted spires ; 
Victoria Lake, on whose banks social Rangoon had 
gathered to cool after a stifling day, lay like a gold- 
chased platter; along the riverfront, dull brown water, 
shot with glinting ripples, swirled and eddied beneath 
quayside godowns, and in the adjacent bazaars a con- 
course of native life moved against a background of 
gold-lettered signs and gilt-painted shops. 

This golden dust-haze enveloped the bungalow in 
Prome Road where Dana Charteris was packing a suit- 
case; floated through the window of a house near the 
waterfront where Hsien Sgam sat talking to another 
Oriental; irradiated the interior of the tramcar that 
carried Tambusami toward the commercial town; and 
glowed in a luminous cloud about a veranda of the 
Strand Hotel where Trent, lounging in a wicker chair, 
engaged in an occupation that might have cast some 
slight reflection upon the morale of the British Army. 
194 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


195 


Immediately after reaching the hotel from the steamer 
he had inquired about the train schedule, and was in- 
formed that to make the best connection at Mandalay 
for Myitkyina he should leave Rangoon on the noon 
train, reaching Mandalay at nightfall. From there, he 
was told, Myitkyina was a matter of twenty-four hours. 
Trent decided to remain in Rangoon until the next 
day; for he intended to explore the mysteries of the 
House of the Golden Joss. Having settled the time for 
his departure, he gave himself over to an inspection of 
the city. After tiffin he visited the bazaars, purchased 
a small leather-bound volume by Shway Yoe at a shop 
in Merchant Street, and now sat on the veranda of the 
Strand, waiting for Tambusami, whom he had not seen 
since he came ashore. 

It was growing too dark to read, and he slipped the 
book into a pocket of his silk suit, transferring his 
attention to the variety of head-dresses that passed in 
the roadway. Pith helmets, felt Bangkok hats, Chinese 
skull-caps, loosely-knotted Burmese scarfs, and turbans 
of all sizes. . . . Darkness fell and street-lamps glowed 
into being before he abandoned his watch and went to 
dinner. 

After the meal he returned to the veranda — and met 
a smiling, bespectacled Tambusami in the doorway. 

“ Biorra salaam , O Presence!” was the native’s greet- 
ing. “Was the Presence beginning to believe I had 
been swallowed up by this strange city?” 

Trent drew him into one corner and sat down. 

“Well?” — as he lighted his pipe. 


196 CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

Tambusami, after a wary look about him, made a 
gesture. 

“I did as you directed, Presence,” he began. “I 
waited until that filthy Mohammedan louse left the ship, 
and followed. Louse indeed, for he went to a place of 
stinks that would poison other than vermin ! Fish and 
onions, Presence! He put such corruption into his 
belly ! From there he walked about several streets that 
are as filthy as that stink-hole of a restaurant, then took 
a tramcar. He. sat in front, I in the rear. 

“At the pagoda, the great pagoda” — meaning, 
Trent knew, the Shwe Dagon — “he got off and defiled 
it with his presence. He went up to the top, where 
there is a great bell, Presence, and many images of the 
Lord Gaudama. Even the dogs in the stalls snarled at 
him ! After he had tainted the upper platform with his 
presence, he returned to the bazaars below. There at 
the foot of the steps he waited, while I hid in the 
shadows above. Finally the one for whom he waited 
came — a Memsahib.” 

Trent’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“A Memsahib,” Tambusami went on. “She wore a 
veil and I could not see her face. She was dressed in 
white.” 

“Did you notice the color of her hair?” Trent cut in. 

“No, Presence; the veil was heavy. But I saw a 
bracelet — oh, a very beautiful bracelet! It was gold 
and had a cobra upon it — a king-cobra, with hood 
lifted!” 

If this announcement was startling to Trent, he sue- 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


197 


ceeded quite well in hiding* it. He smoked on in silence. 

“I could not hear what they said/’ continued the 
native. “They left almost immediately. She had a 
gharry waiting in the road. I did not follow long. 
Am I a dog that I should run behind until my tongue 
drips and I drop dead of heat? When they disap- 
peared, I got on a tramcar. Now I am here!” 

Trent looked at him closely. “You heard the Mem- 
sahib’s voice?” 

“Yes, Presence, but not — ” 

“It wasn’t familiar?” 

“Nay!” 

Trent’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. 

“You should have followed,” was his comment, after 
a moment. ‘ ‘ Since you did n ’t, the only thing for you 
to do is to return to the restaurant. He may go back 
to-night. ’ ’ 

Tambusami ceased smiling. “That stink-hole of fish 
and onions!” he exclaimed indignantly; then: “Very 
well — I am a faithful servant of the Presence ! ’ ’ 

Whereupon he salaamed and departed, quickly losing 
himself among the many turbans in the street. 

Trent continued to drum on the arm of his chair. 
The woman of the cobra-bracelet! And in Rangoon! 
That meant she was a passenger on the Manchester. 
But no, not necessarily. Damn the illusiveness of her ! 
Who was she, anyway? Sarojini Nanjee? In that 
event it was likely Tambusami would have recognized 
her. Perhaps he did, was his next and disconcerting 
thought ; perhaps the affair on shipboard was a hoax, 


198 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


a foil for something deeper; perhaps Tambusami knew 
this and his story of the meeting at the pagoda was 
false. It was queer, he admitted, that Tambusami 
didn’t hear anything that passed between the two. 
. . . But at least, he told himself, he was free of his 
perpetual shadow for several hours; he had not des- 
patched Tambusami to the restaurant because he be- 
lieved Guru Singh would return (if he had ever been 
there), but because he did not wish his own actions 
under surveillance that evening. 

Still puzzling over Tambusami ’s report, he left the 
hotel. An involuntary glance behind showed him no 
familiar face, and he hailed a cab. (When the tempera- 
ture is at ninety degrees one does not walk for pleasure.) 
The gharry -wallah knew no English — which was not 
unusual — and to make himself understood Trent had to 
solicit the aid of a Sikh policeman. 

Hsien Sgam was the pivot of his thoughts as he rolled 
northward along Strand Road. His interest in the in- 
vited interview was almost wholly personal, for he felt 
that the Mongol’s ‘ ‘ revolution ” was more a matter of 
vain dreaming than reality. Such a movement, unless 
backed by some power, could hardly be regarded as 
formidable. Yet the rebellion in South China in nine- 
teen-eleven, which brought about the presidency of Yuan 
Shih-Kai, must have seemed puny in its first stages. 
Although insurrection in Mongolia against China would 
scarcely affect the interests of his Government, it was 
at least worthy of investigation. There was, as always, 
the possibility of infection — for the smell of powder, 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


199 


especially in Eastern lands, is dangerous. It might 
spread into Scezhuan and Yunnan (there were already 
ugly symptoms along the banks of Mother Yangtze) or 
into Tibet, thus bringing it to the back door of Burma. 
And that ‘ 1 back door, ’ ’ he knew, was no small considera- 
tion. Since the occupation of Hkamti Long, the Kachin 
tribes of the Burmese hinterland needed but slight pre- 
text to inaugurate trouble. True, they could be easily 
put down — “ easily,” he reflected grimly, meaning 
troops; death for hundreds in fever-haunted swamps 
and in jungles where lurked innumerable dangers. 
That was “black” country, up there between India, 
Tibet and China; wild people in a wild setting — dwarf 
Nungs, Black Marus and Lisus. Yes, they could be 
quelled, these primitive people, for a price. All of 
which, he concluded, was pure romancing. 

He was in a street that ran parallel with the river, a 
highway where Burmans, Chinese, Hindus, Madrasees, 
Tamils, Cingaleese and Chittagonians mingled in a color- 
ful, reeking democracy unknown to caste-bound Indian 
cities. On one side, beyond quays and warehouses, was 
the river, its dim expanse flecked with lamps on sampans, 
junks and lighters, here and there the white silhouette 
of an ocean-going vessel blotting the gloom ; on the other, 
groups of colors that, like parrots, would seem gaudy 
and flamboyant in other than their natural setting 
shifted upon a background of low, swarth buildings and 
shops decorated with imitation lacquer and goldleaf. 

Here was Burma, sleepy gilded Burma, with its 
quaint kyoungs and pagodas, its air of vain decay. A 


200 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


siren of the East whose charms are fast being supplanted 
by the craft of her less attractive, but more industrious, 
sisters. They laughed and smoked, these light-hearted 
Burmans, while Chinos and Hindus moved with stealthy 
intent among them — grim, silent fellows, as quick in 
commerce as the Burmans are lazy and indolent. This 
was not the quiet of India or China, a boding hush, but 
an atmosphere of somnolence and perfect content. 

Thus Trent was musing when he came at length to 
the House of the Golden Joss. It was a yellow brick 
building in a flagged enclosure, its up-curling eaves 
and series of roofs, to Trent, strikingly like the fan- 
tastic headgear of a lemon-faced mandarin who looked 
out with satisfaction upon the marine highway by which 
the merchandise of his sons floated into port. Curious 
eyes followed the Englishman as he paid the gharry- 
wallah and moved up the low stair to the entrance. 
There, after a pause, he passed between twin stone 
dragons; passed from the twentieth century, so it 
seemed, into a perished dynasty. 

He found himself in a vast court where the smoke 
from joss-sticks hung in clearly defined layers upon the 
atmosphere. The walls were lacquered with red and 
gold; and black-enameled pillars, inscribed with ideo- 
graphs, were joined to the beams by filagree dragons. 
Orange-colored scrolls, red and gold paper-prayers and 
blue pottery reflected bizarre splashes upon glazed floors. 
The draperies were crimson ; great red lanterns, hanging 
from the ceiling like captive moons, added to the scarlet 
effect. Worshippers of all races and colors knelt be- 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


201 


fore the altar and numerous small shrines, and the mur- 
mur of many voices in twice as many tongues hummed 
in the great red temple. 

Trent’s interest was instantly claimed by the blue 
pottery — tall vases, thin of neck and bellying out as 
they curved toward rounded bases and black pedestals. 
Red walls reflected upon their shiny surfaces. These 
vases were relics of China’s Imperialists, Trent knew, 
brought from Honan or Chili — and his collector’s soul 
flamed. Nor did he fail to observe the porcelain drag- 
ons or the intricate filigree work that adorned the beams. 
From these treasures he tore himself and gave his atten- 
tion to the people. Mongoloid features, Aryan and 
Malay. No familiar face among them. 

He pursued a corridor that led from the main court 
and completely circled the building — a dim passageway 
with many curtained recesses off from it. At one corner 
was a restaurant. He could imagine from the smells 
the sort of food served within, and he hurried on, re- 
turning to the temple where incense banished the less 
enticing odors. 

At a light touch on his arm he turned. A gray-clad 
priest stood at his side — an emaciated Buddhist. 

4 ‘ Your name is Tavernake, thakin?” he asked in Eng- 
lish; then, as Trent nodded, added: “Come with me.” 

Trent was led back along the dim corridor, past the 
restaurant with its pungent smells, to a curtained room 
in the rear. It was evidently a bedroom, for there was 
the customary charpoy, or bed. Its walls were ver- 
milion ; vermilion portieres hung in the doorway, and a 


202 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


heavy vermilion curtain defied any air to enter through 
the one window. It was close, stifling. The lantern 
swinging from the ceiling seemed a fiery ball that ra- 
diated heat. 

“His Excellency Hsien Sgam will be here presently,” 
announced the monk; and Trent did not fail to notice 
the title. “He begs you to accept the humble comforts 
of our hospitality until he arrives.” 

Trent’s eyes followed the priest. As the vermilion 
portieres fell together behind him, rippling gently, like 
red heat-waves, the last draught of air seemed banished ; 
the room became oppressive, as though the lid of hades 
had been shut, and the odors from the nearby restaurant 
did not improve the atmosphere. 

Trent dropped on the edge of the charpay, fanning 
himself with his hat and inspecting the room with mild 
curiosity. He leaned over and drew aside the window- 
curtain. A warm current of air breathed upon his face. 
Beyond the rectangle was darkness — the back of the 
flagged enclosure, he surmised. A faint drone of 
voices was borne through the quiet — worshippers in 
the temple-court. Footsteps padded softly in the cor- 
ridor; drew nearer; passed Five minutes. . . . 

Why the devil was Hsien Sgam keeping him waiting, 
and in this infernally hot room, he wondered? 

Growing impatient, he rose and paced the floor, not 
ceasing to fan himself. Sweat streamed into his eyes, 
rolled down his body and moistened his undergarments. 
His scalp burned and needled with heat. After a mo- 
ment he resumed his seat, staring at the motionless 


THE VERMILION ROOM 203 

vermilion portieres. Still the hum of voices from the 
temple ; it went on with maddening persistence. 

“Good God!” he thought, as he mopped his face. 
“Such heat!” 

He glanced at his wrist-watch. He had been waiting 
ten minutes. Confound Hsien Sgam and his revolution ! 

Suddenly his eyes were invaded by an alert gleam. 
That was the only change in his expression. He let his 
gaze rove about the room and continued the restless 
fanning. But there was something in his attitude, in 
the poise of his head, that likened him to a stag suddenly 
aware of an alien presence. 

He had seen the vermilion portieres move — very 
slightly. 

Casually, he lowered his eyes to the bottom of the 
curtain. Two inches of gloom separated the hem from 
the floor, but that was sufficient to show him the toes of 
a pair of shoes. As he looked, they drew back — but not 
too far for him to still see them. 

He continued to fan himself. Perspiration ran into 
his eyes and stung them, and he wiped away the moisture 
with a damp handkerchief. The heat seemed to press 
down, like a burning cushion, and quench his breath. 

The pair of shoes moved closer. Another ripple of the 
curtains. Then, above the murmur from the temple, he 
heard a sound in the corridor — a thwack. Came a quick 
gasp, a low, sobbing intake of breath. 

Trent got to his feet, swiftly. As he stood erect, the 
portieres parted suddenly and a body slued into the 
room. It swung about drunkenly; went to its knees; 


204 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


stretched upon the floor. A revolver clattered beside it. 
Trent barely had time to see that the body was that of 
a gray-robed man — a priest, who had fallen face down- 
ward and lay still, with an ugly blotch between his 
shoulders — before another figure slipped through the 
division of the curtains and thrust forward the muzzle 
of a revolver. 

Trent halted. A flicker of recollection crossed his 
brain. The man who stood outlined against the ver- 
milion hangings was a native clad in dirty garments ; his 
turban was soiled, his feet bare. As Trent saw the scar 
running across one cheek and the drooping eyelid, he 
recognized the snake-charmer who crossed the Bay in 
the steerage of the Manchester. 

The fellow grinned impudently, and the expression 
was reminiscent of another smile. 

“Turn about !” he ordered softly, in English — ex- 
cellent English for a street juggler, as Trent did not fail 
to notice. “Don’t say a w T ord; don’t make a sound!” 

Trent’s eyes dropped to the body; lifted question- 
ingly. Again the snake-charmer grinned — that impu- 
dent, strangely reminiscent expression. 

“Never mind that now!” he said, and his voice, too, 
slow and quiet, seemed vaguely familiar. ‘ ‘ If you want 
to get out of this place whole, do as I say!” 

Trent turned, facing the window. (And the native 
did not see the smile that traced itself upon his face.) 
Instantly the Englishman felt a pressure between his 
shoulders. 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


205 


“Now, drop out of the window!” came the whispered 
command from behind. 

Trent moved to the window and pulled the curtain 
aside. As he swung over the sill he caught a glimpse 
of the juggler’s grinning face. The sash was not more 
than four feet from the ground, and he discovered that 
he was behind the joss-house, in the shadow of a lofty 
wall. Above were stars; at one side, further along the 
wall, a gateway where the glow from a lighted street fell 
within. 

“Walk to the gate,” was the native’s quiet order, as 
he lowered himself from the window. < ‘ Hail a carriage 
and get in. I ’ll be directly behind you. Don’t look 
around or say a word; if you do. . . .” 

Trent obeyed. He moved slowly, almost carelessly, 
through the gate and into the street, where a thin stream 
of Burmans and Chinese flowed toward the joss-house. 

It was half a square before he saw a cab; then, in a 
matter-of-fact way, he motioned to the wallah. As the 
gharry drew up', the slow, familiar voice at his side 
spoke to the driver — in Burmese, Trent imagined. 

The Englishman stepped into the conveyance, show- 
ing no surprise when the juggler got in and sank upon 
the seat beside him. Nor did he look in the least amazed, 
as he should have done, when the native’s drooping 
eyelid lifted and winked at him in an outrageously 
familiar manner. He only smiled — a smile that grew 
as he commented : 

“You ’re a downy bird, Kerth.” 


206 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Which was not indiscreet, for one may safely assume, 
in Rangoon, that his gharry-wallah cannot understand 
him when he speaks English. 

2 

“I ’ve instructed the wallah to drive to your hotel by 
a longer route/’ Euan Kerth drawled, and Trent won- 
dered how he was ever baffled by such a simple make-up ; 
it was the drooping eyelid, he decided, and the absence 
of the waxed mustache. 

“I want time to talk,” Kerth explained. 4 ‘Also, I ’ll 
take this opportunity to return a piece of your prop- 
erty.” 

One slender hand emerged from under his clothing 
and extended an object that gleamed softly in the semi- 
dark, an object that caused the blood to leap into Trent ’s 
temples and throb there for a moment of sheer excite- 
ment. 

For it was the silver-chased piece of coral that had 
twice been stolen from him. 

‘ ‘ Too, I want to tell you, ’ ’ Kerth went on, ‘ ‘ that your 
pretty cobra friend lied to you.” 

“Sarojini?” 

Kerth nodded. “Most gloriously,” he emphasized. 
“Look inside the locket — or whatever it is — and you ’ll 
see. ’ ’ 

Again Trent felt the blood in his temples. But his 
hand was calm as he pressed a fingernail under the rim 
and opened the pendant. He bent low ; peered intently. 
He made no exclamation as he saw the name that was 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


207 


engraved within — hut his breathing quickened. He 
snapped the oval shut and sat with it gripped in his 
hand. The blood was still beating in his temples. 

“As I told you,” resumed Kerth, “Gilbert Leroux, 
the name that ’s written there, was Chavigny ’s last alias. 
Therefore, when Sarojini said he had nothing to do with 
the Order, she lied. And if she lied once, she -’s likely to 
do it again. Fact is, I don ’t trust her. I have a reason 
to believe she isn’t playing the game just right.” 

“Yes?” Trent encouraged, while the name in the 
pendant sang itself in his ears with the roll of the car- 
riage wheels. 

“I ’ll have to be rather personal, ’ ’ was the slow state- 
ment; “embarrassingly so, I fear. Nevertheless, it ’s 
better that you know I know. Before I left Benares 
I sent a telegram to a friend, the Commissioner at 
Jehelumpore — you see, I knew you were stationed there 
at one time — asking if he knew whether — whether you 
and Sarojini Nanjee — well — ” 

He paused. Trent, smiling to himself, said: “Go 
on.” 

“When I reached Calcutta I received a letter from 
him by special post,” Kerth continued. “He told me 

the whole story That ’s all. And for that 

reason — and because she lied about Chavigny — I believe 
you should be wary of her. Balked affection is an un- 
ruly mount to straddle, and when a woman plans to 
make a fool of a man because he doesn’t pay her any 
attention, and the man by his wits turns the affair so 
that she is the fool— well, I ’ll say only that she ’s 


208 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


likely to cause trouble, especially if she has a Rajput 
strain in her blood. ’ * 

Quiet followed. They rolled on toward the hotel. 
Trent was the first to speak. 

“Just how did you do this?” — with a gesture that 
conveyed more than the speech. 

In the semi-dark, unobserved, Kerth smiled. 

“Oh, it was easy enough,” he drawled. “I deter- 
mined to have a look at the instructions you received at 
Sarojini Nanjee’s house, there in Benares. I didn’t 
quite fancy the way she gave in to your request to take 
me along. When we returned to the hotel, I left you 
for a few minutes, if you recall. During that time I 
filled an envelope with blank paper, then went to your 
room and while we were talking, under the pretense of 
getting a match from your tunic, I exchanged enve- 
lopes.” 

“And you returned it that night?” Trent put in, with 
a smile. 

“Yes, I was your nocturnal visitor. I left on an 
express for Calcutta that night. When I got there I 
haunted the environs of the old mandarin’s establish- 
ment. The night you called I hid in the court — back of 
the house and just beind the room where you two were 
talking Oh, it was easy enough,” he repeated. 

“What about this?” Trent inquired, indicating the 
pendant. 

“I intended to take a look through your cabin, on 
general principles, the first night out — and I happened 
along just as your servant and that other fellow staged 


THE VEBMILION BOOM 


209 


their shindy outside your state-room. When you went 
on deck, I seized the opportunity. I found the pendant 
under the pillow and took it because I wanted to study 
the design — and — well, for other reasons, too. I 
didn’t discover the Chavigny alias until later.” 

4 ‘ I had the captain search the steerage passengers for 
it,” Trent said. 

Kerth laughed. “I know you did — and I caused an 
inoffensive, fangless cobra to go to his Nirvana by hiding 
the thing in his gullet. I would have spoken to you on 
shipboard, but I was afraid of hidden eyes.” 

That explained the theft of the pendant on the Man- 
chester (thus Trent to himself), but who took it the 
first time, in Benares? Kerth was evidently ignorant 
of that. Guru Singh was the key to the riddle, and 
he silently cursed himself for having released him. 

“What did you learn about the design?” he pressed 
on. 

“A little,” Kerth returned carelessly. “I spent this 
afternoon at the Bernard Library looking up all sorts of 
deities. The one on the piece of coral is Janesseron, 
the Three-eyed God of Thunder — a Tibetan god.” Then, 
after a pause : 4 4 There may be some significance in the 

fact that the symbol of the Order is a Tibetan deity, and 
then, there may not. I ’ve formed a theory, and unless 
I ’m greatly mistaken, you and I have a neat little sprint 
before we reach the so-called City of the Falcon. And 
if this city is where I believe it is, why, we. . . . But 
I’m anticipating. Anyway, I haven’t the time to 
pawn off my theories upon you. I simply wished to 


210 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


let you know I wasn’t in Bombay, and to return the 
piece of coral.” 

Another pause before he ventured: 

“I suppose you ’re not at liberty to tell me how you 
came into possession of that?” — with a motion of his 
slim hand toward the pendant. 

Trent considered, then replied, “Why, yes.” And 
he told of finding Manlove in the ruined temple at 
Gaya. When he had finished, Kerth whistled softly. 

“So!” he commented. “Chavigny at Gaya — but 
wait! When did I track him to the native serai in 
Delhi?” He was silent for a moment. “It was Fri- 
day,” he resumed, “no, Saturday — I remember now. 
And what day was Captain Manlove murdered? . . . . 
Monday — the twentieth? You see, then, that Chavigny 
would have had time to reach Gaya ; but how in flaming 
Tophet did he get out of Delhi? You remember I told 

you I found blood-stains in his room at the serai 

Hmm. This is a complication. D ’ye suppose Chavigny 
made a mistake — thought Manlove you? Yet why the 
deuce should he want to put you out of the way?” 

A lengthy space of silence followed. Kerth took up 
the conversation. 

‘ ‘ I have n ’t the slightest idea why you went to that 
joss-house to-night; however, I m glad I followed and” 
— he smiled — “saved one of the eyes of the empire.” 

“And I ’m rather glad you followed, too” — this from 
Trent drily. “I sha’n’t forget. I went there to meet 
a. . . .” Followed a short description of Hsien Sgam, 
the Mongol, and an explanation of Trent’s purpose at 


THE VERMILION ROOM 211 

the House of the Golden Joss. Again, as he finished, 
Kerth whistled. 

‘ ‘ Complication upon complication! D ’ye suppose 
he ’s one of the Order ? I remember seeing him on the 
boat. What ’s his object in attempting to murder you? 
It ’s obvious that that was his purpose.” 

“I can’t somehow adjust him with the Order,” re- 
turned Trent. “He seems above that. He ’s capable 
of villainy all right — rather exquisite villainy, I imag- 
ine — but I can’t associate him with thievery and stolen 

jewels Hid you see the face of the fellow who 

tried to kill me ? ’ ’ 

Kerth nodded. “It was the priest who took you to 
that room. Oh, he was shrewd — or rather, the one who 
directed him ! He had a maxim silencer on the revolver ; 
and if I had been two seconds later, you would have 
had a steel morsel lodged somewhere between your chest 
and stomach. I did n ’t dare waste time to explain 
there; I was afraid there might be others, and two 
white men in a heathen prayer-house would have as 
much chance as a pair of bats in hades ! ’ ’ Kerth glanced 
ahead. “We ’ll be at your hotel in a few minutes,” 
he announced, “and your shadow might be there, so I 
think I ’ll make my exit now. I ’m leaving Rangoon 
to-morrow noon, as I daresay you are, too. I’ll manage 
somehow to see you at Myitkyina.” 

He thrust one foot out of the gharry, upon the step, 
and stood there a moment, the reflection from passing 
lamps upon his stained features. He was smiling his 
satanic smile— a rather impudent, careless expression. 


212 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“I think I shall pay another visit to the House of 
the Golden Joss/’ he said. “What you have told me of 
this Hsien Sgam interests me in him. Good luck, 
major ! ’ ’ 

With a wave of his hand he swung down and dis- 
appeared in the street. 

3 

When Trent reached the hotel he found Tambusami 
waiting, with no news of Guru Singh, and the 
Englishman dismissed the native and went to his 
room. 

As he undressed, the coral pendant lay upon the table 
before his eyes and he stared at it fascinatedly — stared 
until the coral blended in with the silver and met his 
gaze like a monstrous bloodshot orb. ... It was hard 
to believe that Chavigny was at Gaya, that it was the 
Frenchman who murdered Manlove. Chavigny — Gil- 
bert Leroux. What reason had he to kill Manlove, un- 
less, as he theorized before, the guilty one had been 
discovered at the bungalow by his victim and in the 
ensuing struggle the latter was stabbed? Or, as Kerth 
suggested, he might have mistaken Manlove for Trent, 
although he could think of no reason why Chavigny 
should desire his death. And there was Chatterjee — 

Chatterjee, who died with his secrets Chavigny 

at Gaya! It was incredible. Of course the piece of 
coral might have been left as false evidence, a blind. 
But who, other than a member of the Order of the 
Falcon, would possess the ornament, and would a mem- 


THE VERMILION ROOM 


213 


ber of that mysterious band have left the symbol to be 
found by the police ? 

Provided Chavigny was the murderer, would it not 
be natural for him to take steps to recover the pendant, 
once he discovered its loss? Perhaps it was he who 
stole it in Benares. But that did not seem likely, in 
the light of Guru Singh’s actions. For why should 
Chavigny wish to return the oval to him ? If. . . . 

Then Trent had an inspiration. Was the attempt to 
kill him at the House of the Golden Joss the work 
of Chavigny ? But what of the Buddhist priest ? Cha- 
vigny might have bought him; paid him to kill Trent. 
To go further, it was possible that Chavigny was on the 
Manchester. Chavigny, an illusive personality, ever at 
his heels, like his own shadow! There was something 
intriguing in the thought. And it was plausible — 
plausible, too, that Chavigny, the notorious Chavigny, 
was the Falcon, the head of that nebulous order. 

Theories, Trent concluded — only theories. He locked 
the pendant in his trunk and switched off the light. 

As he lay in darkness, while lizards chirruped on the 
floor and the ceiling, a sense of cavernous aloneness 
enveloped him. It thronged with poignant thoughts. 
Manlove. ... It seemed an age since he stood in the 
bungalow at Gaya that last morning. So much had 
happened since then — much to distract. Yet always, 
niched away in the subconscious, was the hurt, wearing 
deeper with a bruising force. Trent’s nature was ster- 
ile for the average seeds of intimate kinships, but now 
and then — not more than half a dozen times in his life — 


214 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


one fell upon fertile soil. There was something fresh 
and strong in his association with Manlove. (An essence 
thrice sweet in the memory. ) Their personalities seemed 
to have entered into a mystic communion of comradeship 
— a bond not of words nor demonstrations, but feeling. 
That was why he felt so keenly the bruise of it. 

Gone, too, was the woman who had materialized from 
his world-scroll into intimate palpability, bringing the 
rich gift of her presence — and leaving the bitter-sweet 
pangs of her departure. He would find her again, for 
she had fixed herself in the inner-penetralia of his being. 
But the period of waiting ! .... Waiting — love’s Geth- 
semane since the first simian creatures battled in the 
wildernesses of a still-hot planet. 

As he lay there, reflecting upon these things, he ex- 
perienced an ache, a sensation of isolation, that was 
reminiscent of his boyhood — of a night when a shadowy 
being of antiseptics and sick-room odors roused him 
from sleep with the announcement that the man who 
had fathered him into existence was no longer in the 
house. 

It dulled only when a sleepy intoxication came over 
him, and as he surrendered to it he visualized, in a dim, 
hazy way, a falcon, and it lay in a welter of blood. 


CHAPTER VIII 


i ‘beyond the moon” 

A t noon the next day Trent drove to the station 
where Tambusami, having attended to his luggage, 
was waiting. The Englishman looked for Kerth among 
the travelers on the platform, but saw no one who even 
resembled him. However, he reflected as the train 
pulled out, Kerth might have changed his identity and 
passed within a foot of him without his knowledge ! 

When Pegu lay behind, he shifted his attention from 
the “Rangoon Gazette” to the endless panorama of 
paddy fields and scrub jungle. Yet he could not al- 
together divert himself. Invariably the landscape 
faded, to be replaced by the recollection of some recent 
scene : the court of the joss-house ; the ride along Strand 
Road with Euan Kerth. But more frequently his mind 
was possessed with an image of starry luster and 
russet hair. The memory of Dana Charteris occurred 
suddenly, unexpectedly, in the very midst of other 
thoughts. She seemed a central force about which mus- 
ings, retrospections and quandaries revolved. He found 
himself separating from their short association certain 
incidents and looking back upon them as through stained 
glass. He pictured her under the black and gilt scroll 
in the Chinese quarter; in the dusk of the Bengali 
theater; in the bow of the Manchester, beneath the 
215 


216 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


sprinkled flame of tropic stars. These portraits ar- 
ranged themselves in a mosaic — an exquisite inlay of 
romance. Romance. He clung to the word. “The 
doctrine of Romance and Adventure — ” She had said 
that “. . . . in mellower years, to close your eyes and 
dream of wandering in the ‘Caves of Kor’ or the time 
you spent on a pirate island.’’ 'She had the spirit of 
youth eternal — youth with its orient mirages. He was 
having the Great Adventure now. Soon it would be 
over. And then? Back to the old routine — medicines 
and sun-scorched villages. (The thought was new, 
strange. Had he ever been a doctor ? It seemed so long 
ago ! ) But in the years to come, at night, over his pipe, 
he could dream of it all. The memory of things — that 
was life’s recompense for taking them away. 

Shortly after seven o’clock he arrived in Mandalay. 
As he left his carriage, he saw a familiar figure — Kerth, 
scar, drooping eyelid and all; saw him again, an hour 
and a half later, when he boarded the Myitkyina train. 

A perceptible coolness invaded the carriage that night, 
and when Trent awakened in the morning he looked out 
upon jade-green hills. The scenery, as well as the people 
who stood on the railway platforms, had changed. 
Great fern trees and immense clumps of bamboo grew 
on the hillsides. 

Evening was pouring its dusky glamour over the 
world, and the far, misty ranges of the China frontier 
had purpled when Trent left the train at Myitkyina, 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


217 


the terminus of the Burma Railway. He caught a 
glimpse of Kerth hurrying away in the twilight as he 
despatched Tambusami to the P. W. D. Inspection 
Bungalow to see if quarters were available there; and, 
after numerous inquiries, took himself into the bazaar, 
to the shop of Da-yak, the Tibetan. 

The latter proved to be a languid person with a blue 
lungyi twisted about his hips. He inspected Trent with 
narrow, inky-black eyes, and led him into a back-room 
that stank of the hundred nameless odors of the bazaar. 
There he glanced lazily, indifferently, at the coral sym- 
bol that the Englishman showed him. 

“We expected you yesterday, Tajen,” he announced 
indolently, in atrocious English; and Trent wondered 
who the “we” included. “I am instructed to tell you 
to go to the Inspection Bungalow and wait. I will call 
for you later in the evening; in an hour, perhaps.” 

Which concluded the interview. 

Trent decided immediately that Da-yak, the Tibetan, 
was of no consequence, merely a mouthpiece. 

He returned to the station, where he had arranged to 
meet Tambusami. There he waited for at least fifteen 
minutes. The native was in a high state of excitement 
when he finally arrived. 

“Guru Singh is here, 0 Presence!” he reported. “I 
saw him down by the river. He w T as in a boat, going 
upstream. I cried out to him and called him a liar and 
a thief, and he told me I was a bastard! The swine! 
He knew well I could not get my hands on him ! 9 7 

“And you let him get away?” Trent demanded. 


218 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


‘ 1 What could I do, Presence? There was a Gurkha 
nearby, but I knew the Presence did not want the 
police to interfere with his business. Think you I 
would have let him go after he called me that, could I 
have prevented it?” 

Trent was n ’t so sure ; but he only said : 

4 * Very well. What about quarters?” 

“All is arranged at the bungalow, Presence.” 

Thinking of what Tambusami had told him, Trent 
left the station, the native at his heels. He wondered. 
Did Guru Singh’s presence mean that the woman of the 
cobra-bracelet was in Myitkyina? 

2 

Just about the time Trent reached the P. W. D. 
Bungalow, a street-juggler with a scar across one cheek 
and a drooping eyelid made his way through the main 
road of the bazaar. His good eye was very active — as 
was the other, for that matter, although less visible to 
passers-by — and he swung along with his head cocked at 
a rakish angle, pack slung over his shoulder, flashing 
smiles at the copper-skinned Kachin and Maru girls. 

Singling out a shop where boiled frogs, sweetmeats and 
confectionery were displayed to the mercy of insects, 
he approached, and, after purchasing a delectable morsel 
cooked in ghee (which he deposited in his pocket in- 
stead of his stomach), he announced to the spare Bur- 
man who lounged in the doorway : 

“I go to Bhamo to-morrow, O vender of sweets, and 
I must take my brother a present. Canst thou suggest 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


219 


what it shall be ?” Then, before the other could answer, 
he went on: “I might buy an umbrella — or, better 
still, a turban-cloth. ’ ’ 

The Burman came out of his lassitude enough to say 
that he sold very beautiful turban-cloth, and much 
cheaper than any other merchant in the bazaar. 

“I want a nice one,” he of the drooping eyelid as- 
serted ; “a white one, spotted like a cheetah, or perhaps 
yellow.” 

The shopkeeper had none such as he described, he 
said, but he had some fine cloth of red hue that came 
from a shop in Sule Pagoda Street, in distant 
Rangoon. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the juggler. “I have been to Ran- 
goon. It is a great city. Let me see the cloth of red.” 

In the course of bargaining, he said : 

“Tell me, 0 wise one, is there in the bazaar a mer- 
chant who bears the name of Da-yak?” 

The Burman grunted that there was and waved his 
hand toward a lighted doorway not far away. 
“There!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the juggler again. And he added, 
by way of explanation, that at Waingmaw, whence he 
had come, a friend warned him against buying at the 
shop of Da-yak, who was a cheat. 

“All Tibetans are cheats,” was the Burman ’s 
comment. 

“Has he been here long, robbing you of your trade?” 
the juggler pursued. 

“Oh, not very long,” was the languid answer; “since 


220 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


about the time of the casting of the bell in the pagoda 
last year. But his shop is not half so nice as mine. He 
is a dirty wild-man.” Then: ‘‘Didst thou say, 0 
traveller, that thou would st take the turban cloth for 
six rupees and two annas?” 

“Nay, I am a poor man. For five rupees, 0 generous 
one. ’ ’ 

At length the turban-cloth was purchased, for five 
rupees, and the juggler moved on. In front of the shop 
of Da-yak he paused, looked about tentatively, then 
strode to a spot just outside the door. There he un- 
slung his pack. From a basket he produced a brass 
pot with a thin neck. Squatting, back to the wall, he 
brought forth a flute and began to play. 

At first the music attracted only children. But be- 
fore many minutes girls and men joined the circle about 
the juggler, and, as the group enlarged, a sinuous black 
body rose from the brass pot; rose and dropped back, 
like a geyser; rose again and slithered to the ground 
where it curled its tail into an 0, and, with head lifted, 
lolled to the delirious piping. 

“A-ie!” sighed the onlookers with approval — and 
drew back a step. 

Presently a head was thrust out of the doorway of 
Da-yak’s shop — as the juggler did not fail to observe 
— and, following the head, its owner. He squatted and 
indifferently watched the proceedings. 

After the cobra had danced, the juggler performed 
many feats of magic, to the delight of the simple hill- 
people. When his repertory was exhausted, the audi- 


“BEYOND THE MOON’’ 


221 


ence moved on and he found himself alone with the 
squatting Tibetan merchant. 

“I am a stranger here, 0 brother/ ’ announced the 
juggler, pouring the coins from his bowl into his hands 
and shifting them from one palm to the other with a 
musical clink-clink. “Canst thou tell me where I will 
find a bed for to-night ?” 

In the dim light the juggler studied Da-yak’s fea- 
tures — thin lips, high, thin cheeks, and mere slits for 
eyes. 

“Thou canst find a bed of grass under any tree,” 
was his reply, covertly watching the coins. 

“Nay! Am I an animal that I should lie upon the 
ground when I sleep? Hast thou no room? I am a 
story-teller and for a bed I will tell thee a tale that thou 
hast never heard before ! ’ ’ 

“Nay, juggler, I have no time for stories.” 

“Then thy children?” 

“I have none.” 

“Perhaps thy wife?” 

“Nor have I a wife, either.” 

The juggler grunted. “Art thou a celibate that thou 
hast no wife?” He leaned closer, peering into the 
Tibetan’s face. “Indeed, 0 merchant, thy face is like 
that of a lama I knew in Simla ! ’ ’ 

Da-yak’s slitty little eyes opened wider, showing small, 
bleary pupils. 

“What is it to thee, 0 scarred one, if I have a wife 

or not?” 

To himself the juggler admitted that it meant more 


222 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


than a little, but to the Tibetan he said: “ Scarred in- 
deed, and afflicted of an eye ! Seest thou this ? ’ ’ — touch- 
ing the scar. “It is a mark left by a Dugpa’s knife 
— in Tibet. I was headman for a Burra Sahib who 
traveled from Sikkhim, which is a far country which 
thou hast never heard of, to the holy city of Lhassa. 
From thence we went down, across many mountains, 
into Hkamti Long and the Kachin country. At Fort 
Hertz we followed the mule-road. That was many 
years ago.” 

‘ ‘ Thou dost lie , 9 ’ accused Da-yak. ‘ ‘ No white man has 
ever crossed from Tibet into the country of the Hkamtis. 
There is no road there — ” 

‘ ‘ Then where is the road, indeed, if thou dost know ? ’ ’ 
interrupted the juggler. 

“Did I say there was a road?” flared the Tibetan. 
“There is none.” 

“There is a road, if a road it can be called! For 
did not I travel it? By the Four Truths of Gaudama 
Siddartha, it is thou who dost lie ! ” 

Da-yak’s eyes burned with anger. “Why dost thou 
swear by the Lord Gaudama?” 

Inwardly, the juggler smiled. “Why do rivers run 
down to the sea, thou dolt?” he asked — and made a 
mystic sign, a sign that is known to few. 

Da-yak’s eyes were no longer burning. But his inky- 
black pupils moved nervously under the lids. 

“Thou dost make strange signs, 0 evil eye,” he mut- 
tered. ‘ ‘ How do I know that thou hast not summoned 
Nats to beset my shop and drive away those who might 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 223 

buy?” He rose. “Go find a bed in the stink where 
thou dost belong!” 

The juggler, too, rose. He spat contemptuously. 

“ Kala Nag!” he hissed; which means, “black snake.” 

And, picking up his pack, he swaggered off — while 
Da-yak, with an uneasy glance over his shoulder, entered 
his shop. However, the juggler did not go far. In the 
darkness of a nearby alley, from which point he could 
observe anyone going in or out of Da-yak’s house, he 
sat down to wait. But not for long. Scarcely had five 
minutes passed before the Tibetan emerged from the 
shop and, like a shadowy cinema-figure, hurried off in 
the gloom. 

The juggler got up. He smiled — for, figuratively 
speaking, he possessed a key to certain locked doors. 

3 

Trent was on the veranda, smoking, when Da-yak 
presented himself at the Inspection Bungalow, and with- 
out a word he rose and accompanied the Tibetan. 

“We go to the river, Tajen ” the native informed him 
briefly. 

A walk past lighted bungalows and well-kept com- 
pounds brought them to the river — the mighty Ir- 
rawaddi, flowing down from mountain heights, past 
dead kingdoms and into tropical seas. A slim saber 
of a moon was swinging up over the hills as they came 
within sight of the stream. It showered the water with 
a wealth of silver coins that collected into a band, and, 
shimmering and coruscating, stretched from the remote 


224 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


shore to the sharply etched Kachin rafts and country- 
boats beneath the Myitkyina bank. 

Into one of the smaller boats Da-yak led Trent. Two 
boatmen, both in turban, jacket and lungyi, stepped 
lazily into the craft, and one shoved off while the other 
crawled forward and plied his paddle, guiding the boat 
into midstream and turning its prow with the current. 
The smell of the jungle, warm, fragrant odors, hung in 
the air, and the rhythmic dip of the paddle, with the 
sucking sounds produced by the water as it slapped the 
sides, only italicized the silence. 

Trent, lounging among cushions amidships, let his 
eyes follow Da-yak, who moved forward and took the 
paddle from the boatman. The latter, with a murmured 
word, rose and crawled toward Trent. 

“ I w r ould sit beside you, Sahib/’ he announced in 
a soft voice. 

Trent stared — and the boatman laughed, a sweet 
laugh that rippled low in the throat; laughed, and 
sank upon the pillows beside the man whose breathing 
had grown a trifle faster as he inhaled the perfume of 
sandalwood. 

“You are surprised?” asked Sarojini Nanjee, quite 
pleased with the effect of her sudden appearance. 

He smiled. “You are clever.” 

The woman clasped her hands behind her head and 
regarded him. The night made secret certain of her 
features, for whereas the moon shone full upon her face, 
softening the contours, her eyes were hid in dim 
mystery. Thus, when she looked at him, (as she was 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


225 


doing every second) he could not see her eyes. Which 
seemed to please her, for she lay back upon the cushions, 
smiling, an insolently boyish figure. 

“Did not you find Tambusami an excellent bearer?” 
was her next query — and he imagined her eyes were 
mocking him. 

‘ ‘ Quite ’ ’ — rather drily. 

“Yet he cannot equal your Rawul Din,” she went 
on. “He is a perfect example of careful tutoring.” 

She leaned closer, so close that the warmth of her 
breath was on his lips, and her eyes, like black opals, 
burned near to his. 

“I wonder, man of wits, how many bearers would 
think to do what your Rawul Din did, that night at my 
house?” Then she laughed and drew away; and the 
musical peals were reminiscent of shattered crystals. 
“I should be angry — for why did you spy upon me?” 

“I don’t understand” — this from him. 

“No?” — with irony. “Am I so dull that I do not 
understand when I find a pool of wine under a divan? 
Oh, he was clever, very clever ; but I was more clever ! ’ 1 

Trent wondered how much she knew. He felt sure 
she could not have guessed the truth, for the discovery 
that Delhi was keeping a finger on her would un- 
doubtedly have angered her. 

“Surely you would like to know how I came here,” 
she announced. “Why not inquire?” 

4 ‘ I was instructed to ask no questions, ’ ’ he reminded. 

She nodded that queer little nod of hers. 

“You obey well — when you wish to. But we have no 


226 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


time now to talk of the past; suffice to say I come and 
go like the wind, when and where I will, and depending 
upon no man.” 

She settled deeper among the cushions and watched 
him — watched him half -humorously, as though he be- 
longed to her and she was undecided what to do with 
him next. He realized she was waiting for him to speak, 
that she wanted to find out what he had learned since 
their meeting at Benares. Therefore he resolved to 
keep silent, not that what he knew was of any signifi- 
cance, but because uncertainty on her part was his best 
weapon. So he drew into his shell and waited. When 
she could no longer endure it, she said: 

4 ‘ Now that you are here, have you no thought of what 
you are to do ? ” 

“ There ’s a platitude about anticipation, ’ ’ was his 
reply. 4 ‘ Preconceived ideas never are correct.” 

“You, of course, suspected Myitkyina was not the 
end of your journey?” 

“Then it is n’t?” 

He could not see her eyes, but he knew she was looking 
at him closely. 

“Did not his Excellency Li Kwai Rung speak of cer- 
tain terraces, each a step toward enlightenment ? ’ ’ 

He nodded. “Is the City of the Falcon the next?” 

“Ultimately,” she modified. 

“When do I start — or do we?” 

She shook her head. “You start to-morrow.” Then, 
following a pause: “Previous to this you have been 
under my direct observation and protection.” That 


“BEYOND THE MOON ’ 7 


227 


made him smile to himself. “I can no longer do that. 
Certain threads will be placed in your hands and you 
will be left to untangle them. And it will not he easy. 
That is why I chose you.” 

The boatman had ceased paddling, and they drifted 
with the current in silence that was like a presence. 
Now and then a gibbon called from the bank ; frequently 
fish leaped above the water, breaking the moon’s path 
into silver fragments. 

“Oh, it is far from easy!” she continued. “You 
will pass through a stretch of country where no English- 
man has been. There will be discomforts — yes, dangers. 
The jungle knows how to torment white men. Death in 
a hundred guises waits for the unwary; death in the 
poison swamps, in the bush; death everywhere!” She 
straightened up, and her hand closed over his. ‘ ‘ There 
will be times when you will curse me for having sent 
you ! Yet in the end there is reward ! Glory ! Honor ! 
Your name will sweep from one end of the empire to 
the other!” Then she drew a sharp breath, for she 
divined what was in his mind. “You believe I lie? 
But I speak the truth, before all the gods! Yonder” 
— with a wave of her hand — “beyond the moon, it lies, 
this city where the Falcon nests with the treasures of 
Ind!” 

“You mean the jewels passed through Myitkyina?” 
he questioned, trying to speak casually, as though it 
were a spontaneous query rather than a studied inter- 
rogation. 

“Ah! Did I say so?” she fenced. “Nay! I will 


228 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


not answer that! Perhaps they did; perhaps they did 
not.” (Trent was more inclined to believe the latter.) 
“IIow r ever, they are there, beyond the moon, and every 
one shall be returned, down to the smallest pearl ! ’ ’ 

It sounded rather preposterous to him. How could 
this thing be accomplished by two people? Was she 
playing with him? She ’d hardly dare. She might 
risk it, were he alone, but with the Government of India 
behind him a false move on her part would be her own 
defeat. Yet he could not disassociate her from some 
hidden, not altogether pleasant, purpose. 

“Aye!” she resumed. “You and I” — and her 
fingers tightened about his hand — “shall do what the 
Secret Service could never do ! We shall go where they 
could never go! We shall understand things that they 
could never understand! We are blessed of the gods, 
you and I! We shall pluck the Falcon’s pinions; rob 
his nest. And, oh, it will be a great jest, a very great 
jest! If you only knew, you would laugh with me! 
But not yet. It would spoil the secret to tell it now.” 

“Yet you can tell me now,” he suggested, “how 
far this Falcon’s nest is?” 

She inclined her head. “Yes, I can tell you that 
now.” And her answer was as fantastic as the city 
itself: “It is nearly eight hundred miles.” 

Inwardly, he started. A moment passed before he 
spoke. 

“Nearly eight hundred miles,” he repeated, pictur- 
ing as accurately as possible a map. “Traveling west 
of Myitkyina that would take us beyond the Brahma- 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


223 


putra ; east, into China — about upper Yunnan or Kwei- 
chow ; and north — well, the Tibetan border is three 
hundred miles from Myitkyina. Which is it: north, 
east or west?” 

“Which seems the most likely? In which of the 
three regions would the Falcon’s nest be in less danger 
of discovery by blundering British agents?” 

He had guessed, but he did not wish to commit him- 
self. He deliberately chose — 

“Beyond the Brahmaputra?” 

She laughed. “You are no fool. The moment I 
said nearly eight hundred miles you knew I meant 
Tibet.” 

He considered for some time. Then: “That ’s im- 
possible.” Subconsciously, he was thinking of the 

coral pendant Janesseron, a Tibetan god. Nor 

had he forgotten what Kerth told him in Rangoon. 

“What is impossible?” 

“Tibet.” 

She chose to smile at that. Apparently she enjoyed 
the astonishment that he made no effort to conceal. 

‘ ‘ There is a way and a means for everything ! 
Whither goes the elephant when his time is come? 
Does man know ? ’ ’ She shrugged. ‘ ‘ Oh, it is a strange 
planet, this!” 

She drew something white from beneath her jacket — 
something that crackled as she unfolded it and spread 
it upon her knees. The moonlight showed him the faint 
tracery of a map. 

“Bend closer,” she directed. “See, here is Myitky- 


230 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


ina” — her finger rested on a tiny dot. “ Above is the 
confluence of the Irrawaddi. The Mali-hka flows north- 
east, the ’Nmai-hka northwest. You will follow a route 
in the triangular space between the two rivers, in a 
territory where Government surveyors have never been. 
At the edge of the Duleng country you cross the ‘ Nmai- 
hka and go eastward to a town across the Chinese bor- 
der, in Yunnan. It is called Tali-fang, and is under the 
administration of a military governor, the Tchentai. 
Just beyond Tali-fang is the Yolon-noi Pass into Tibet. 
And there” — she touched a blank space in Tibet, in the 
northwest corner of Kham — “is the City of the Falcon. 
Its name is Shingtse-lunpo.'’ ’ 

That conveyed nothing to Trent. But its situation 
did. In Tibet, between the sources of the Brahmaputra 
and the Mekong ! It was as incredible as if she had in- 
formed him he was to go to the moon. Her figure of 
speech was not amiss — “Beyond the moon.” That 
territory was as nebulous as the regions of the moon, as 
weirdly unreal. It was the country toward which 
Mohut, the explorer, had striven, which Prince Henri 
d ’Orleans had skirted. 

“From Myitkyina,” he heard Sarojini Nanjee saying, 
“to Tali-fang, you will be guided by a Lisu; there will 
be porters, of course. At Tali-fang you must call at the 
Yamen of the Tchentai , who will furnish fresh mules 
and supplies. There you will also exchange your porters 
and guide for Tibetan caravaneers. A passport is 
necessary to enter Shingtse-lunpo, but that will be pro- 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


231 


vided. Once inside, you will be upon your own re- 
sources. ’ ’ 

“As whom does the Falcon know me?” he inserted. 

“I am coming to that. He knows you as Tavernake, 
the jeweler — a childhood friend of mine. The work 
he expects you to do is to oversee the cutting and reset- 
ting of the jewels — a work that you will never do. 
He will no doubt see you before I do, so guard your 
tongue. Trust no one unless he comes in my name and 
has proof.” 

‘ ‘ Then I shall see you there ? ’ ’ 

A nod. “I start to-night, as I must reach Shingtse- 
lunpo in advance of you. Oh, as I said, I come and 
go as the wind, when and where I will, and depending 
upon no man! But I do not go as Sarojini Nanjee. 
.... Just before you reach Tali-fang — it will not be 
necessary until then — Masein, your Lisu guide, will help 
you effect a transformation from a white man to a 
Hindu merchant from Mandalay. White skins are not 
popular in that region. You speak Hindustani as well 
as some Hindus, better than others. Avoid the natives 
as much as possible, for they are not over-fond of any 
one who is not of their race. If asked whither you go, 
say to a holy city in Tibet.” 

Silence settled for a moment after that. They were 
more than a mile from Myitkyina, and the silver coins 
still glittered and danced in midstream. 

“D ’you think,” he began at length, “if the Govern- 
ment knew I was going into Tibet, it would approve?” 


232 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


She shrugged. “Why not? It was understood at 
Delhi that you were to do as I directed; go wherever 
I willed. ’ ’ 

“Suppose — ” But he halted. 

“Yes?” 

“Suppose I am killed in Tibet?” 

“But you will not be.” 

“You said there would be dangers.” 

“Yes — but you are a resourceful man.” 

“Frequently resourceful men are killed. Let us 
suppose I were murdered in Tibet — by robbers, we 11 
say. It would place my Government in an awkward 
position. Could Tibet explain satisfactorily; or would 
there be a British expedition, resulting in death for 
hundreds, because of one indiscreet Englishman?” 

“Is it indiscreet,” she countered, “to recover the jew- 
els?” 

He appeared to be considering that. Finally: 

“If it were made known that the gems are there, the 
Government could demand action from the ruling pow- 
ers of Tibet — or send an expedition.” 

She laughed. “Do you call that logic? And answer 
me, impossible one, who are the ‘ruling powers’ of Tibet, 
as you choose to call them? The Dalai Lama? Or the 
British Raj ? Answer me that ! And as for the expedi- 
tion : we are the expedition. In this case the wits of two 
are worth more than a hundred Lee-Metfords. Guile! 
Guile is the stronger weapon — and it does not attract so 
much attention as guns!” 

Again silence. They were still drifting with the cur- 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


233 


rent. Behind, in the moon’s path, was a tiny blotch — 
another boat. He watched it curiously. Seeing his in- 
quisitive look, the woman spoke. 

“No doubt it is Tambusami with your luggage; I in- 
structed him to fetch it from the Inspection Bungalow 
and follow. Yonder,” she explained, with a gesture 
downstream, “is your camp. There you will remain un- 
til dawn. I shall accompany you to the camp, as I 
have further instructions to give your guide.” 

Questions bred in Trent’s brain and clamored for 
^utterance, but he pressed them back. For her to know 
he was anxious was the surest way to learn nothing. 
Therefore he held his tongue, reflecting upon what she 
had told him. 

He was suspicious of her promises. She was not a 
type to volunteer service to a government without some 
personal motive. And of her motives he was doubtful. 
There was a scheme of her own interrelated and under 
the surface. Too, he felt that by this latest move, in 
having his luggage brought from the Inspection Bunga- 
low, she had thrown Kerth off the trail. 

He extracted cigarettes from his pocket, for he felt 
that a smoke would clarify his thoughts ; passed the case 
to her. She took one with languorous grace and bent 
nearer for him to light it. As the match flared, he saw 
her eyes, again like black opals, close to his. But he 
learned no secrets from them ; they were as baffling, as 
crowded with mysteries, as the black jungles ahead of 
him. 

“There is much more to be explained,” she said, 


234 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


tilting her head and expelling smoke from her nostrils ; 
“ certain things to be ignorant of which would surely 
lead to trouble. . . .” 

As they drifted on she talked, cigarette in one hand, 
the other resting upon the map. Before long Da-yak 
plied his paddle, sending little ripples over the stars 
that lay reflected like silver pebbles in the river. The 
moon rode high above the hills, a phantom dugout, and 
the collar of silver coins spread in extravagant display. 
The boatman in the rear crooned a song of ancient 
Hkamti — of a Sawbwa who loved a Maru maiden and, 
forsook his kingdom for the dark-eyed daughter of de- 
light. And Trent, listening, felt himself drawn back 
to the night when he stood in the bow of the Manchester , 
in the realm of the stars, and Romance whispered an old, 
old tale. 

The spell did not leave until the boat grated upon a 
sandbank, close to a dark tangle of forest, and Da-yak 
sprang out. Then Sarojini Nanjee put away the map, 
rose and took Trent’s hand. 

“Your camp is only a short distance beyond the 
trees,” she told him. 

As he stepped out of the boat Da-yak made a sound 
like a night-bird, and a moment later there came an 
answering cry from the dark thicket. 

4 

When the juggler — he of the scar and the drooping 
eyelid — left the alley in the bazaar, it was to follow Da- 
yak. At the P. W. D. Bungalow he saw a sahib join 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


235 


the Tibetan — which was what he expected. Prom 
there he tracked them to the river, and stood upon the 
high bank watching as they cast off and glided down- 
stream. 

When they were well under way he sauntered down 
to the huddle of boats, and, choosing one, dropped his 
pack in the bow and kicked the Kachin who lay sleeping 
in the bottom. 

“Wake up, lazy one; I would go to Waingmaw.” 

The boatman, thus awakened, looked up with uncon- 
cealed hostility. Seeing a native, and a ragged one at 
that, he let go a stream of oaths that, fortunately for 
him, were not understood by the juggler. However, 
the latter imagined from the tone in which the words 
were delivered that he was being neither praised nor 
glorified. 

“This for thy trouble, 0 boatman,” said the juggler, 
choosing to ignore the oaths and thrusting a banknote 
within view of the Kachin ’s eyes. 

The boatman, not entirely appeased yet too avaricious 
to allow a mere insult to stand between him and the 
banknote, pushed off, and the juggler seated himself in 
the stern, both to steer and to watch the craft ahead. 

“Do not gain on yonder boat,” he instructed when 
they were in midstream, “nor lose. If thou hast a 
conscience that thou canst smother, then this night will 
indeed be profitable for thee, Kachin.” 

The juggler said this knowing -well that his every 
word would be repeated to all the boatmen in Myitkyina, 
and that, after traveling through devious channels, they 


236 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


would reach the bazaar, greatly magnified en route. 
For what purpose a juggler with a drooping eyelid had 
followed a boat down the river could only be surmised 
— but bazaars surmise much. 

“Know you those who are in that boat?” he con- 
tinued, baiting gossip. 

The Kachin grunted — which was intended as a nega- 
tive answer. 

“The boatmen are no friends of thine?” 

Another grunt. “The boat belongs to Kin Lo,” the 
Kachin volunteered, chewing on an opium pellet. “But 
some stranger hired it for the night.” And he added, 
by way of personal suggestion, “They paid well.” 

This information pleased the juggler, for he smiled 
and drew out a cheroot and lighted it. 

“Aye!” he growled. “They paid well, did they? 
Well, why should they not? Robbers! Sons of swine! 
Listen, Kachin — in yonder boat is my enemy. From 
Mandalay I have followed him, and ere the moon sinks 
I shall avenge the wrongs he committed against my 
house ! ’ ’ 

“A-a-ah!” sympathized the Kachin, forgetting the 
rude awakening — they are as eager for scandal, these 
wild men of the hills, as the most polished Englishman 
who sits beneath a punkah in Rangoon Cantonment. 

Whereupon the juggler recited a tale of imaginary 
woes and wrongs that did justice to his alleged art of 
story-telling. Myitkyina’s lights had long dropped 
away behind when the juggler saw the leading boat 
turn, cross the path of moonlight and glide shoreward. 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 237 

“Ah!” he muttered. “See, Kachin, he thinks to 
elude me, the swine ! ’ ’ 

A glance behind showed him another craft — a mere 
speck on the expanse of the river. For a moment he 
was undecided what to do, then, with an exclamation 
of satisfaction, he stripped himself but for a perineal 
band. 

“Listen well, Kachin,” he admonished, creeping for- 
ward. “It is not wise for my enemy to see me coming 
ashore; therefore I shall swim, like a crocodile. Turn 
back to Myitkyina. There hurry to the bungalow of 
Colonel Warburton Sahib — you know where it is? Tell 
him he is wanted at the landing immediately. He will 
go.” 

“But my money,” objected the Kachin. “How do 
I know you will come back ? ’ ’ 

“Dost thou not see, 0 fool, that I have left my clothes 
and my pack? Will not I return for them?” 

The boatman was not positive of that. 

“Well, then, I will give you half now,” compromised 
the juggler, taking a wallet from the inside pocket of 
his discarded jacket. The Kachin watched with crafty 
eyes to see if the wallet would be returned to the pocket, 
but the juggler thrust it carefully under his turban. 

“Lend me thy dah,” he directed. “And do as I said. 
Thou shalt be well rewarded for thy trouble.” 

With the knife gripped between his teeth, he slipped 
over the side into the current. He made no sound as 
he swam away from the boat ; only his moving head and 
the ripples in his wake told of swift, underwater strokes. 


238 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


The river was cool — old wine to the muscles — and he 
made for the bank several hundred feet above the white 
stretch of sand where the other craft had landed. Not 
until he was very close to the shore could he touch 
bottom. There he halted, head above the surface, eyes 
straining to penetrate the gloom further along. He 
could make out the faint blur of the boat and a single 
figure huddled in the stern. A look toward midstream 
showed him his craft fast being absorbed by the dark- 
ness. Behind it, coming from Myitkyina, was another 
boat. 

He waited for events to mature. When the latter 
craft, which he could see contained two forms, came 
abreast of him, midstream, it turned shoreward and a 
few minutes later touched the sandbank near the boat 
that he had followed. He could dimly make out the two 
forms as they carried several bulky objects ashore and 
vanished in the jungle — leaving the solitary figure hud- 
dled in the rear of one of the boats. 

The juggler smiled to himself and struck out, swim- 
ming easily with the current. Less than twenty yards 
from the boat he submerged, propelling himself forward 
until yellow sparks reeled before him; then he buoyed 
himself up. 

The two country-boats loomed close by. His heart 
beat a tattoo against his breast as he waited, feet upon 
the pebbly bottom, to see if his approach had been heard. 
Apparently it had not, for the man — a native boatman 
from his appearance — lounged in the rear seat, his 
body slouched forward. 


“BEYOND THE MOON” 


239 


After a brief hesitation the juggler (his eyelid no 
longer drooping) took the dah from between his teeth 
and moved slowly, cautiously to the rear of the boat. 
It was shallower there; the water barely reached his 
arm-pits and his chin was level with the back of the 
craft. The man had not stirred; he was evidently 
asleep, the juggler thought. The forest that met- the 
sandbank was silent but for the whirr of cicadas. 

For a full moment the juggler stood motionless. 
When he moved it was quickly — and before the native 
had time to realize what had occurred, he was seized 
and jerked backward over the stern. If he cried out, 
the water smothered the sound. But what he failed 
to do in noise, he made up for in activity. He squirmed 
and wriggled, his legs and arms thrashing about in vain 
effort to wrest himself from the grasp of his sudden 
assailant. But the juggler had the advantage of sur- 
prise — and a firm hold on the native’s neck — and he 
brought the hilt of the dah down upon the latter’s skull. 

The native relaxed — sank with a gurgle The 

juggler lifted him. Assured that he was only uncon- 
scious, he dragged him to the sandbank, and there, 
breathing heavily, sank on his knees. 

The native, like the juggler, had a beardless face 
and was naked but for loincloth and turban. The latter 
was small, a mere rag twisted around his head. There- 
fore, the juggler told himself, with the darkness as his 
ally he might easily pass as the other — for a short while 
at least. And the defeat of empire has been accom- 
plished in less than an hour. 


240 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


He quickly stripped the man, then cut his own turban 
into strips and gagged and bound the unconscious one. 
When this was done, he caught the fellow under the 
arms and dragged him several yards down the bank. 
There, carefully selecting a spot in the undergrowth 
where he was not likely to be soon found, he hid him. 
Retracing his steps to the boat, he sat down in the 
stem to wait. 

Indeed, he reflected, his kismet looked upon him with 
favor. 


CHAPTER IX 


FEVER 

L IKE a black wedge driven from Hkamti Long into 
Upper Burma, its point touching the confluence of 
the Irrawaddi, lies a strip of territory that on British 
maps is marked ‘ ‘ unadministered. ’ ’ Outposts have been 
established on either side, from Port Hertz down to 
Myitkyina, paltry stations where, in many instances, 
one white man and less than a company of Gurkhas 
impose law upon primitive tribes. Thus, walled by 
civilization yet untouched by it, the people of this black 
wedge live. A peaceful lot now, this remnant of the 
once great Tai race. Copper-skinned men hunt through 
its cathedral forests with dah and crossbow. Baboons, 
buffalo and musk deer roam over its hills. Reptiles 
haunt the green mucous of miasmatic valleys. Fever 
and pestilence lurk in the purple fungi spawned by 
dark jungles, in bogs and in swamps where the stench 
of rotten orchids hangs like a poison-vapor. 

Into this black wedge Trent traveled. Late after- 
noon of the ninth day found his caravan encamped on 
a spit of sand reaching out into a river, a stream that 
moved languorously between high canebrake. The man 
who sat on a collapsible campstool before his tent, smok- 
ing, was as little like the Englishman who got off the 
train at Myitkyina ten days before as possible. His 
241 


242 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


khaki breeches and flannel shirt were streaked with 
dust; mud was caked upon his boots. The sun had 
burned him a deeper bronze, and every variety of insect, 
from sandfly to blood-sucker, had left marks upon him. 
A nine-days’ growth of beard helped to cover tawny 
fever-stains, but blotches showed on his neck and hands. 
.... The jungle had shown him how she initiates her 
neophytes. 

As he sat there staring at the jade-green river, he 
went back, in retrospection, over the journey — not that 
he derived any pleasure from the recollections, but 
because his brain seemed inclined to reach behind and 
he was too mentally weary to make any effort to prevent 
it. To him, now, those nine days were a confused 
sequence. For many miles beyond the ’Nmai-hka travel 
was not difficult, along bridle-paths and past villages 
where Kachin and Maru women, flat-featured, ugly 
creatures, planted their taungya, and men sat outside 
fiber huts and chewed betel leaves; rugged, undulating 
country; rivers that flung their torrents over shallow 
beds and were spanned by rattan bridges, the latter 
impossible for the mules. Twice, where the water was 
too deep, Trent had the muleteers construct crude rafts 
and pole the pack-animals across. The first time they 
attempted this they lost a mule. Trent would always 
remember that scene: the shrieking porters on the raft, 
the look of the beast as the stream wrapped foaming 
arms about it and dragged it down among sharp-fanged 
rocks. 

That night he had had his first attack of fever. For 


FEVER 


243 


several hours he lay on his camp-bed, harassed by ticks 
and bloodflies, shivering and vomiting at intervals. 
Then he fell asleep, and when he awakened in the morn- 
ing, with rain drip-dripping monotonously upon taper- 
ing fronds, his back ached and he was a furnace. All 
day it rained and all day Masein, the Lisu guide, at- 
tended him. The following morning he had only a 
slight temperature — a chronic touch of fever that re- 
mained for several days — and he pressed on. 

Hourly the country grew wilder. They passed 
through thickets and underbrush as tall as a man. Wild 
pigs scurried away in the bracken, and jungle fowl 
preened their wings in the shadow of groping plants, 
taking flight at the appearance of human beings. The 
fourth night they were close to a stretch of burning 
bamboo — one of those sourceless fires that spring up and 
sweep over miles. It was an awesome sight, the flames 
flaring crimson against the sky, like the angry vomit 
of a crater, the bamboo stalks popping and crackling 
as loud as the rattle of machine-guns. 

Soon their trail led into great, dim forests. There the 
sunlight, robbed of its pitiless blaze, sifted through 
interlaced branches and sucked up moisture from the 
ground, creating a weird green haze. The air was 
malarial, the ground ever soggy and in places treacher- 
ous. More than once the mules sank to their bellies in 
bogs and fens. The miasmas crawled with stealthy life 
— snakes and horrid land-crabs. Leeches bred by the 
millions, and the cozy corruption exuded a thin, lumin- 
ous vapor that was warm and clammy and reeked of 


244 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


decayed matter. This noxious swamp -effluvia seemed 
to penetrate to every crevice of Trent ’s being ; it satur- 
ated his brain; it tainted his thoughts. He ceased to 
marvel at the wilderness of plumed flowers, of dank 
jungle caverns where sunlight pulsed through the lace- 
work of leaves in needles of white flame — stretches 
where convolvulus fought for possession of every limb 
and trunk, and insects rattled above stagnant pools of 
Death. . . . There were times when a fever-film sep- 
arated him from the world about him and deprived 
objects of their individuality. 

At night spunk shone like phantom eyes. Strange 
winged creatures wheeled out of the darkness. Baboons 
coughed in the bush. When the moon came out the 
swamps glittered like sheets of rusted gunmetal — or, if 
it stormed, the great jungle-expanse seemed a chapel of 
terror. Often Trent tried to read by the campfire. 
But invariably the print danced before his eyes. He 
would lie down outside the tent, listening to the Maru 
porters piping on bamboo flutes, and w r hen he grew 

sleepy Masein would rub him with alcohol Thus 

he spent his evenings. 

Frequently — at dusk, dawn or midday — cool hands 
of memory fell with silken lightness upon his feverish 
thoughts, the hands of the girl who had become so 
closely woven into the fabric of his being. During those 
half-delirious hours she grew to be an integral pos- 
session, a real presence, warm and tangible. . . . And 
just as frequently, perhaps more poignantly, he thought 
of Manlove. The silence, the isolation from his kind, 


FEVER 


245 


seemed to press deeper the realization of what had oc- 
curred. There were moments when it seemed unreal; 
when the woman of the cobra-bracelet, Chatterjee and 
the others that played in the drama, were vague shapes 

in a shadow-show Or, if it had all happened, it 

was long ago, dim as a dream That was fever. 

Too, he thought of Euan Kerth and conjectured what 
had become of him since that evening he hurried away 
in the dusk at Myitkyina. That he had lost the trail 
he felt certain, although there was a chance that he 
would appear unexpectedly, as he had done before — a 
very filmy chance. Had he discovered where Trent 
was going, he would surely have communicated with him 
in some way. 

At several villages he inquired through Masein if 
another caravan had preceded his. By the negative 
replies it became evident that Sarojini Nanjee had taken 
another route, and he strongly suspected that she had 
deliberately sent him on the longer and more difficult 
of the two. After a few attempts to draw information 
from Masein, he decided that the Lisu knew nothing, 
was simply what he was represented to be — a guide. 

The country beyond the swampland afforded much 
better traveling. To the west mountains were visible 
— faint pastels of gray and pearl and amethyst. In 
rocky gashes in the earth little cataracts fumed and 
tumbled, and ferns and orchids grew in damp, moss- 
covered hollows. Trent shot a deer and several pheas- 
ants. The higher altitude buoyed his spirits, as did the 
fresh venison and fowl after so much canned food. He 


246 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


ceased thinking morose thoughts. Yet the horror and 
reek of those two days in the miasmas still clung 
in his memory, even in his nostrils, he sometimes imag- 
ined. 

Thus, on the afternoon of the ninth day, they came 
to the spit of sand reaching out into the river and 
pitched camp; and Trent, pipe in mouth, sat in front 
of his shelter and looked at the Maru porters swimming 
in the jade-green river without seeing them, while 
Masein gathered fuel, and the mules, tethered near to 
the canebrake, swung their heads and stamped in futile 
efforts to shake off leeches. There was nothing in the 
scene even to suggest that an eventful night was being 
ushered in. 

The sun dropped lower. It chased the jade-green 
river with gold until it glittered like a scaly python. 
Fireflies glimmered in the rushes, and a bat pursued a 

velvety -winged moth Across the stream, from a 

Shan village somewhere close by, a gong sounded. 
The Marus, laughing, swam across and disappeared in 
the high grass. Masein called after them, but received 
no response, and, muttering to himself, he impaled a 
strip of venison upon a stick and held it over the flame. 
It writhed 

A few minutes later Trent was stripped and in the 
water. Refreshed by a swim, he dried himself and ate 
a meal of venison steak and tea. Stars sprinkled the 
still flushed sky, like drippings from a silver paint- 
brush, and under the spell of the jungle sunset Trent 
sat down in front of his tent to smoke. 


FEVER 


247 


It was then that he heard a faint, staccato report — 
like that of a revolver or a rifle. 

It came from the hill-jungle behind the camp, and 
for several seconds afterward he listened for a repeti- 
tion. Masein, too, had heard, for he stood motionless, 
looking at his master. But there was no second report, 
and the silence, the utter quiet, made Trent wonder if 
he had really heard anything. If it was a shot — ? 
Well, he knew the natives had no firearms; there must 
be white men in the district, P. W. D. men or Govern- 
ment officers. In that event he did not wish to be seen, 
as there would be questions to answer. He therefore 
suggested that Masein investigate, and the Lisu plunged 
eagerly into the canebrake. 

A moment afterward Trent’s imagination supplied 
a solution for the shot — Kerth. He started to call 
Masein back, but reconsidered and waited. . . . His 
wrist-watch ticked off fifteen minutes. He noticed, ab- 
stractedly, pale flickerings on the far-away hills. When 
a half hour had passed he followed the native’s trail 
through the rushes and along a narrow bridle-path. 
Not far from camp he met Masein. 

“It is a white man, master,” exclaimed the Lisu. 
“He has a camp there” — with a gesture. 

Then he extended something that glinted softly in the 
gloom, and Trent took it and examined it closely. The 
blood throbbed in his throat. 

“Where did you get this?” he demanded. 

“He % gave it to me, master — the white man. He said 
when you saw that you would come.” 


248 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Without another word Trent followed the Lisu, the 
blood still throbbing hotly in his throat. For the thing 
that glinted softly was a golden bracelet with the figure 
of a king-cobra wrought in heavy relief upon it. 

More than a half-mile from the camp, on the trail 
that Trent’s caravan had traveled, they came to a clear- 
ing. A tent was pitched at one side, a litter of packs 
scattered carelessly about three mules. A shadowy 
form sat on a stool before the tent-door — a form that 
resolved into a young man in khaki and a sun-helmet. 
The revolver that he held shone in the deep twilight. 

As Trent and the Lisu appeared he jumped up. 
Trent instinctively drew his weapon/V^The young man 
stumbled toward him. A yard aWay he paused and 
swayed; his revolver slipped from limp fingers. 

“Major Trent!” / 

At the sound of the voice, Trent sprang forward and 
caught the slim form. It relax^l and the sun-helmet 
fell to the ground, releasing a wIMm of hair that rippled 
down and showered the shoul|p*s with coiled strands 
that in the fading light gleamed like molten copper. 

“Oh, I knew you wpuld come!” she gasped, with a 
hysterical little laugh: “I — I sent that — like Kurna- 
vati sent her bracelet — to Humayun — only — you came 
— in time ! ’ ’ 

Whereupon her head dropped back and the starlight 
shone upon cool, lustrous features. But she was not 
cool. Trent felt the heat of her body, and, apprehen- 
sive, he placed his hand upon her forehead; let it slip 
down until it touched the pulse in her throat; drew a 


FEVER 249 

sharp breath and swore. Her eyes were open — glassy, 
staring eyes that looked at him without seeing. 

“Miss Charteris!” he said. “Where are your por- 
ters? Who ’s with you? You ’re not here alone, are 
you?” 

She did not answer. The lids sank over her eyes, 
and he knew she had fainted. He looked about ir- 
resolutely. Through the trees, in the direction of his 
camp, he saw a quick flash. 

“There was nobody else here when you first came?” 
he asked Masein ; then, as the Lisu answered negatively, 
commanded: “Look in the tent.” 

Masein obeyed. His expression when he emerged told 
Trent it was empty. The Englishman lifted the girl in 
his arms. 

“Wait here a few minutes,” he instructed. “If any- 
body comes, report it to me. ’ ’ 

With that he turned and strode back along the bridle- 
path, laboring under the weight of the girl’s body. 

Frequent flashes illuminated earth and sky; thunder 
grumbled, approaching closer with every roll. A wind 
had sprung up and was rustling the leaves overhead. 
Trent hurried, fearing the storm would break before 
he reached camp. 

When he finally came to the sand-spit the wind was 
wildly whipping the tent-flap. The stars had gone, and 
lightning, streaks following in rapid succession, reflected 
a livid, sick hue upon the river. The girl was conscious 
when he placed her upon his cot. She clung to his 
hands. 


250 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Where is the pain?” he asked. “In your back 
mainly ? ’ ’ 

She only moaned; he felt a tremor pass through her. 
Gently freeing his hands, he went outside and shouted 
for one of the Marus. He swore savagely when he re- 
ceived no answer. After strengthening the tent-pegs, 
he made a search for his electric pocket-lamp. Snap- 
ping it on, he opened his medicine-case; took out a 
hypodermic syringe 

The rain came then, suddenly, in a drenching down- 
pour. Sheets of water, illuminated by vivid flares, 
swept across the river ; ruthlessly lashed the canebrake ; 
beat deafeningly upon the canvas. Thunder crashed 
out in mighty belches that shook the very ground . . . 
It seemed that the artilleries of the universe had con- 
centrated upon earth. 

Trent knelt beside Dana Charter is, holding her hands 
and frequently feeling her pulse. The girl went from 
one paroxysm of shivering into another. Gradually the 
opiate deadened the pain. Several times she tried to 
speak to him, but he put his fingers over her lips. 

Meanwhile the tent-ropes strained, the wind tore 
through the trees. An occasional crash told of a fall- 
ing limb. For over an hour this continued; then it 
ceased as suddenly as it had begun. When the wind 
died down, Trent lighted a candle. Dana Charteris 
was as still and white as a chiseled figure on a tomb. 
The sight of her made him catch his breath. As he 
drew nearer she opened her eyes. He lifted one burn- 
ing wrist. 


FEVER 251 

“My porters/’ she whispered. “They ran away — 
I—” 

“You must keep very quiet,” he interposed. 

* ‘ Is — is it — that bad ? ’ ’ 

He hesitated, then nodded. She closed her eyes ; 
opened them an instant later. 

“But do you want to save me? You know now 
.... the bracelet ” 

“You must keep quiet,” he repeated. “You must 
help me that way.” 

A short while afterward, when the pattering rain had 
ceased and stars peeped through the doorway, Masein 
crept in and told Trent something. What it was the 
Englishman could not remember; he remembered only 
that he directed the Lisu to break up the girl’s camp 
and bring her mules and supplies to the sand-spit. 
Every thought was focussed upon the slim hot body 
that rolled and tossed upon the cot. She begged for 
injections of opiate and sobbed when he refused. His 
lip was sore from the pressure of his teeth. With each 
shiver of pain he suffered. It was one of the few times 
in his career when he was afraid, dreadfully afraid. 

The dark hours wore on. Shortly after first-dawn 
she fell into a restless feverish sleep. He slipped out 
to tell Masein to fetch fresh water, and as he reentered 
he felt a hard object in his pocket, pressing against his 
thigh. It was the bracelet. He withdrew it, vanquish- 
ing by sheer force the thoughts that uprose in his mind, 
and placed it in his kit-bag. There it would stay until 
she could speak. 


252 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


As morning looked down from a golden sky Dana 
Charteris awakened, and the battle was on again. 

2 

During the next two days Trent lost cognizance of 
time. He warred against elemental forces, armed with 
the crudest of weapons. Queer, unfolding moments 
came to him, bringing a potent consciousness of conflict 
that took him back to nights of tragedy and smoky tur- 
moil — a sense of blood in throat and nostrils that sol- 
diers know. 

The girl wavered on the border of delirium. In her 
weakness she pleaded for false stimulation, and there 
were times when he was tempted, for her sake, to take 
the easiest course. Yet he knew that to surrender would 
slay the tissues of resistance that he had struggled so 
steadfastly to build, and he forced himself to consider 
only a lasting relief, suffering himself an anguish as 
keen as the physical and experiencing self-loathing 
when he performed those intimacies that were demanded 
of him. 

He had fought death where the harvest was ghastly, 
perhaps had grown a little calloused, as men will when 
in close and constant contact with human ills, yet al- 
ways, even in the case of the meanest Hindu coolie, he 
felt a responsibility that challenged his sparring in- 
stincts. It was as though he guarded some terrible 
frontier. . . . But nothing had ever so drawn upon 
him and consumed his every unit of nerve and energy 
as this. He felt wholly accountable for her condition, 


FEVER 


253 


here in this remote spot. Her pain was his own, a part 
of him, feeding upon his vitality. He gave willingly, 
seeming in moments when she was drawn close to the 
Door to infuse into her the power to fight as he, a strong 
man, could fight — physically and spiritually. He was 
lifting her, hut sinking himself as he lifted. There 
were periods when thought and action were no longer 
submissive to will; his brain felt atrophied and he was 
sentient only to utter exhaustion. He seemed incapable 
of stemming the rush of things beyond his dominion — 
was an atom in the path of a blinding and inexorable 
force. The values of human remedies and sciences 
dwindled in his sight. He was drained. Yet a vitaliz- 
ing power, some inner dynamo, never failed to energize 
him. He attended to every detail himself, allowing 
Masein and the Marus only to take turns with a palm- 

leaf at the bedside It was, after he had exhausted 

medical means, a grapple in the dark with foes that were 
neither tangible nor corporeal; when it was over he 
did not understand nor try to fathom the miracle that 
was wrought. 

At dusk of the third day her temperature was almost 
normal and she was sleeping quietly. Trent, his face 
haggard, left the Lisu fanning her and lurched rather 
than walked to the river. He shed his clothing and lay 
for some time in the shallow water, his head pillowed 
upon one bent arm, tasting of absolute relaxation. 

When he returned to the tent Dana Charteris was 
awake. Her hair lay in red-gold confusion about her 
white face — a pool of glowing shades and lights. She 


254 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


smiled faintly as he entered and he took the palmleaf 
from Masein, motioning him to leave. She spoke. 

“I think we ’ve won.” 

By that he knew they had. A surge of relief swept 
up through him. It was like a new and strange delir- 
ium; it unseated his control. He sank upon his knees, 
and his lips touched one cool, moist hand. The fingers 
of her other hand ran lightly through his hair. 

“0 Arnold Trent, how you fought!” she breathed 
tremulously. 4 ‘And all the while you were wondering, 
wondering why I was there that night — why I — ” 

“Hush,” he remonstrated, lifting his head, again in 
command of himself. “It is n’t finished yet. You must 
promise not to speak of that — not until I ask you. Now 
go to sleep. That is the quickest way you can get well.” 

“I promise,” she said weakly, tears trembling in her 
eyes, “if you will rest, too. Will you? You need to 
be strong — strong — so you can help me.” 

She closed her eyes; sighed. Her hand slipped from 
his clasp. 

He spread a blanket on the sand in front of the tent ; 
spread it, and lay down; and almost instantly sleep 
declared itself the emperor of his being. 

3 

The convalescence of Dana Charteris was short. A 
break in the rains had more than a little to do with her 
recovery, for the sunshine was a golden elixir that 
aroused the stricken forces of her body, was a warmth 


FEVER 


255 


that wiped away the fever-stains and ripened a faint 
color in her cheeks. 

Once Trent offered to read to her. She begged him 
instead to tell her of those tiger-hunts with his father. 
That seemed to touch a spring that opened secret vaults 
of his nature. There was color and feeling in his tell- 
ing. He spoke in the abstract. She could smell the 
beast, flanks aquiver, and wet, monsoon jungles in his 
sentences — sentences that abounded with the metaphors 

that he liked to use India lived in her while he 

talked — India, her wildernesses and her cities, her heart- 
break and her treachery. Too, he taught her a few 
Hindustani words and phrases. 

But his contributions did not alone make those hours 
rare. Her gifts were as precious as pearls. Gossamer 
dawns when the sun’s sabers smote the lingering dark- 
ness and sent it reeling, when life seemed at its ripest; 
the languor of purple nights, campfires glowing in the 
dusk — all these were but vessels for the exquisite revela- 
tion of her. 

Yet under their talk was a strain that never relaxed. 
In the main part, they spoke guardedly. The man 
never ceased to wonder what the consequences of the 
delay would be, and it concerned him more than a little 
what Sarojini Nanjee might do if she learned through 
Masein of an alien presence in the caravan; while the 
girl, realizing she was holding him back, yet dreading 
the time when he pronounced her entirely recovered, 
was in a constant state of chaos. 


256 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


The fourth day after she passed the danger mark 
brought to a climax their play-acting. The sun, like 
a red-lacquered ball, was rolling toward the hills, shying 
little bronze disks at the river, and Dana Charteris 
was seated on a blanket in front of the tent. Trent 
went to his kit-bag to get a fresh supply of tobacco, and 
the gold bracelet slipped out. She smiled — a frightened 
smile. She broke the tension by saying: 

“ There ’s no use to pretend any longer. I can’t 
endure it. I ’m delaying you. I am strong enough to 
— to — ” She stopped; began anew. “Oh, you ’ve been 
fighting against it! You ’re afraid for me to speak, 
afraid — ” Again she halted, groping for words. 

He had picked up the bracelet. She caught his hand. 

“Sit down, won’t you?” 

He sank beside her. But his eyes were upon the 
heavily-chased circlet of gold. 

“You’ve been so kind!” she breathed. “And all 
along, when you realized I had been deceiving you, you 
tried to tell yourself it wasn’t true; that there might be 
two bracelets like that, and that it wasn’t I who wore 
it at Gaya that night. But there’s probably not 
another bracelet like that in India. My brother bought 
it for me in Delhi. It was I who wore it at Gaya — 
who spoke to you on the road — who eavesdropped — 
who tried to cheat you — who ran away, like a .coward, 
when it became known that Captain Manlove had been 
— been killed ! ’ ’ 

Strained silence followed, the girl eagerly watching 
his face for some expression either of encouragement 


FEVER 257 

or condemnation, the man staring at the bracelet in 
his hands. She forced herself to go on. 

“There’s so much to tell that .... Well, I’ll start 
at the very beginning, when my brother sent for me to 
come to India — ” 

Followed a recital of the meeting in Delhi and of 
her brother’s story of the jewels of Indore. 

“That night some one entered Alan’s room and stole 
the imitation Pearl Scarf,” she continued. “Alan was 
hurt — stabbed. Later I found the thief’s turban and, 
inside, a scrap of paper with foreign writing upon it. 
When I showed it to Alan, he said it was Urdu. Trans- 
lated, it read something like this: ‘His name is Major 
Arnold Trent, of Gaya.’ ” 

Trent lifted his eyes questioningly, and she nodded. 

“Yes, your name and address. That was all. . . . 
Alan was of the opinion that the package Chavigny 
carried into the bazaar at Indore contained the real 
Pearl Scarf, and that instead of the copy he snatched 
that. By some means, he believed, it was traced to 
him — and stolen — whether by Chavigny or another he 
could only guess. 

“I had an inspiration.” She smiled slightly. “You 
will think me foolish — yet — yet you seemed to under- 
stand on the Manchester when I told you of the ‘Caves 
of Kor’ and the pirate island. I saw the doors of my 
adventure opening. Too, I wanted to help Alan. I 
suggested that I might learn something if I went to 
Gaya ; Alan could n ’t because of his hurt. He would n ’t 
hear of it at first, but I finally persuaded him — and 


258 CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

went to Gaya, intending to go no further, not 
realizing — ” 

She broke off abruptly, shrugged. 

“The afternoon I reached Gaya I hunted up your 
bungalow, merely to get the location. That was the time 
I met you on the road. I ’m a poor adventurer, for 
that encounter frightened me dreadfully — and by the 
way you looked at that” — indicating the bracelet — “I 
knew you ’d recognize it if you saw it again. That 
night I returned — and — ” She paused, quite evidently 
confused. “You 11 surely think I — I — ” 

“Go on,” he said laconically. 

She averted her face, a flush upon her cheeks. 

“I listened outside a window and heard you tell 
Captain Manlove of your orders from Delhi and that 
you were going to Benares. After that I hurried away. 
As I was leaving the compound Captain Manlove came 
to the door. I went back to the Dak Bungalow and sat 
down and thought. Oh, I thought a long while. Then 
I rode to the telegraph office and sent a message to Alan, 
saying I was leaving for Benares. While I was there 
an officer came in and I heard him tell the clerk that 
Captain Manlove had been found” — she hesitated — 
“dead.” 

The muscles of Trent’s jaw tightened visibly as she 
pronounced the word. Otherwise he was expressionless, 
still staring at the bracelet. Why didn’t he move or 
say something, she wondered? It was maddening, the 
way he kept silence ! 

“The picture of Captain Manlove,” she resumed, “as 


FEVER 


259 


I last saw him in the doorway haunted me. I thought 
of a hundred things that might happen if it were 
learned that I had gone to your bungalow just before — 
before his death. So” — there was a bitter note in her 
voice — “so I left within two hours, buying a ticket to 
Mughal Sarai instead of to Benares.” 

For the first time he asked a question; but he did 
not raise his eyes. 

“You took the coral pendant from my room — there 
at Benares?” 

She nodded. “That piece of coral! It caused me 
hours of anxiety! The afternoon you arrived I saw it 
in your hands while you were sitting on the portico. 
It rather fired my imagination, although I did n ’t know 
its significance then. After dinner, when you left the 
hotel, I tried to follow, but I became hopelessly lost. 
I had a frightful time finding my way back to the hotel. 
But I was n’t to be cheated; intrigue was burning in me 
that night. I borrowed a skeleton key and sent my 
servant — a man I had hired — to search your room and 
bring me the piece of coral. Of course, when I found 
that it opened and that Chavigny’s alias was engraved 
inside, I knew I had a valuable clue. But my servant 
wasn’t able to return it, for when he went back there 

was a light in your room I was in a dilemma. 

I didn’t know what to do.” 

“But why did you send him to my room in the first 
place — or follow me to Benares?” he interrupted 
quietly. “Surely you knew I was on a Government 
mission and that — I sha’n’t mince words — that you 


260 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


were interfering with affairs that didn’t concern you.” 

“Yes, I realize that,” she confessed. “Oh, I admit 
I was wrong — but I had entered the ‘Caves of Kor’ 
and the lure of them drew me on.” 

“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he broke in, relenting. 

< t j > > 

“You are simply telling the truth,” she supplied. 
“I shouldn’t have done it, but I deluded myself into 
believing I might recover the Pearl Scarf and help 
Alan. I was selfish enough to want him to achieve at 
the cost of another’s failure. That was why I went on 
to Calcutta. I had no idea where you were going, that 
next morning at Benares; that is, until I saw a porter 
take your trunk from your room. Then I sent my 
servant to find out where it was bound, and — I packed 
quickly and followed. ’ ’ 

“Then you tracked me to the Chinese quarter there, 
instead of — ” He did not finish. 

She knew that the truth would tarnish a memory, 
but she could not evade it. She smiled wanly. 

“I have reached the ‘Temple of Truth’ in my ‘Caves 
of Kor’! Yes, I followed, with a guide. Alan had 
wired me the name of a man who he said would serve me 
well — an old bearer of his. I waited all afternoon on 
the upper porch of the he tel, and when you left I 
followed, with Guru Singh, the bearer. We hired an 
automobile, instructing the driver to keep you in sight. 

When you left your automobile, we left ours 

Oh, those frightful places you led us through! Of 


FEVER 261 

course we were halted when you went into that house 
in that dreadful street. 

“I determined then to make your acquaintance. Just 
before you came out I sent Guru Singh away; then 
I deliberately threw myself upon your mercy. But 
oh, I felt guilty! I realized that you didn’t suspect 
it was all deliberate and planned! 

“The next morning I made another desperate move. 
I had to return that piece of coral. Too, I wanted to 
learn your plans. I gave the pendant to Guru Singh 
—with instructions. To insure him against discovery, 
I — I asked you to go shopping with me. Guru Singh 
found a packet in your trunk showing that you had 
a berth on the Manchester to Rangoon, and that from 
there you were going to Myitkyina, to the shop of Da- 
yak, a Tibetan. But your servant happened along, and 
in the excitement Guru Singh forgot to leave the coral. 
It seemed that I ’d never rid myself of it ! ’ ’ 

The sun was almost below the hills now. A gong 
in the nearby Shan village rang clearly across the quiet 
evening. Both Trent and the girl sat motionless, listen- 
ing until it died out. 

“I wired Alan that I was going to Rangoon and 
would wait for him there,” she said, taking up the 
thread of her story. “I didn’t send it until just be- 
fore I went to the boat, for I was afraid he might say 
no — and, oh, I wanted to see my adventure through! 

“On shipboard Guru Singh at last succeeded in re- 
turning the coral — but that inevitable servant of yours 


262 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


appeared. I was terrified when I learned that Guru 
Singh had been caught! I felt responsible for it, and 
afterward I carried food to him several times. That was 
what I was doing the night I met you on deck. I was 
frightened, and I flung plate and all overboard. Then 
.... But you know what occurred then. I had come 
to hate myself for what I was doing, yet the thing was 
a Medusa. It held me and I let it draw me on. 

“I met Guru Singh, by previous instructions, at the 
pagoda in Rangoon, and we drove to Alan’s bungalow 
— but only to leave part of my baggage, and that night 
I took a train for Myitkyina with Guru Singh. When 
we got there I realized the presence of a strange white 
woman would be noticed in so small a place, so I in- 
structed Guru Singh carefully and went back to Man- 
dalay to wait. 

“The second day in Mandalay I heard from Guru 
Singh. He wired for me to come. When I arrived he 
told me he had found where the jewels were — also that 
you had left Myitkyina. It seems that Da-yak was ar- 
rested” — here the muscles of Trent’s jaw tensed again 
— “and your servant, too. Guru Singh said he bribed 
the jailer to let him see Da-yak, who, after he was paid 
liberally, told where you had gone. ... He said the 
jewels had been taken to a city in Tibet: the name is 
Shingtse-lunpo. The sum of his words is that this 
place is the penetralia of a band called the Order of 
the Falcon, with a man known as the Falcon at its 
head. The Tibetan took oath he didn’t know the Fal- 
con. At any rate, he said that to get there one had 


FEVER 


263 


to go first to a town across the China border — Tali- 
fang, he called it — and that only three men in Myit- 
kyina knew the route to Tali-fang, one of whom had 
gone with your caravan and another with some one else. 
The third was a Buddhist priest. Da-yak said there 
were several ways of reaching Tali-fang and that you 
had been sent by the longest. At Tali-fang one would 
have to depend upon his own resources to get a guide to 
take him into Tibet, he said. That was all he would 
tell — or rather, he said that was all he knew.” 

“I don’t suppose,” Trent questioned, “lie told who 
had him arrested?” Yet Trent felt that he knew with- 
out asking who had arrested Da-yak and Tambusami. 

“No,” she replied. 

Trent nodded — more to himself than to her — and 
she went on. 

“That the jewels were in Tibet — vast, mysterious 
Tibet — both frightened and fascinated me. To go where 
no white woman had been — the land of Marco Polo, 
Orazio della Penna and Hue! You can understand the 
lure of it. Yet I think I must have been a little mad to 
have attempted it — but we all are, are n ’t we ? 

4 ‘ Guru Singh — poor, dear Guru Singh ! — tried to per- 
suade me to turn back, but I wouldn’t. We went to 
the Buddhist priest. For an extortionate ' sum he 
agreed to guide us to Tali-fang. So we outfitted a 
caravan, Guru Singh, the monk and I, and two days 
after you left Myitkyina we took the same trail. I 
went as a man ; I thought it would excite less 
suspicion. Before leaving, I wrote Alan. I waited 


264 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


until then because I knew he would disapprove. 

“At several villages we learned that you had already 
passed; then, the third afternoon, one of the porters, 
who was ahead, came back with the news that your 
pack-train was about a mile in advance. We marched 
more slowly after that. The nearness of another white 
person reassured me, for — oh, before that it was terrible 
in those jungles and swamps! I think the loneliness 
and the fright, after dark, would have driven me mad 
had I not remembered what the converted Brahmin 
priest, who lectured at home, said about the jungle. 
That comforted me. 

“Last — When was it? I can’t remember now — but 
it was late afternoon and I was sitting in front of my 
tent. The Buddhist priest passed. There was some- 
thing about him, the way he looked at that moment, 

that struck me numb to the heart I realized 

what an impossible thing I was trying to do ; wondered 
what would happen if I reached Tali-fang and found 
I could n’t go further. Yet — yet I could n’t turn back. 
As I sat there, thinking, a desperate plan unfolded. 
. . . . I told Guru Singh. 

“The next afternoon, late, he and the priest and my 
porters left for Myitkyina. Guru Singh stayed behind 
until — until I fired the shot — and — and your muleteer 
brought you. I began to feel ill, suddenly. I . . . 
Well, that ’s all. I had intended to tell you that my 
porters deserted — and other lies, too. I knew you 
wouldn’t leave me; you couldn’t send me back, and 
you ’d have to take me with you. But after — after all 


FEVER 


265 


yon did — I couldn’t falsify; I couldn’t Now 

you know the truth.” 

She halted — halted and waited for him to speak. 
But he did not. His eyes were still upon the bracelet, 
nor did he look up. The silence was long and tense. 
Finally, unable to endure it longer, she moved her hand 
tentatively; dropped it; raised it again and let it rest 
lightly upon his sleeve. 

“You — you believe me — don’t you?” she faltered. 

He drew a deep breath ; lifted his head. 

“Yes,” he said, looking across the river. “Yes, of 
course I believe you. I ’m only wondering what I ’m 
going to do with you.” 

He rose then and moved off rapidly toward the 
eanebrake. 


4 

For over an hour Trent walked. When he returned 
to camp he found Dana Charteris sitting where he had 
left her. Masein had made a fire, and the leaping 
flames kindled a glow in the meshes of her red-gold 
hair. Eyes dark with misery met his — moist eyes. 
.... The cobra-bracelet glinted on his wrist. 

“I was abrupt a while ago,” he announced, halt- 
ing before her, head slightly lowered — as a man stands 
before a cathedral-image. “I am sorry. I was worried. 
I should n ’t have left as I did, nor should I have stayed 
away so long, but I wanted to be alone — to solve the 
problem. I think I have.” 

She smiled faintly. “Don’t apologize, Arnold Trent. 


266 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


You Ve done enough for me.” She paused. “You 
must hate me,” she pressed on after a moment. “First 
I deceive you; then I fall sick and delay you; and 
when I recover, I am a stone about your neck.” She 
laughed a mirthless little laugh. “What are you going 
to do with me?” 

He made a gesture. “You were right. I haven’t 
a guide to send back with you, and you can’t go alone. 
The nearest Government post is Kwanglu — that ’s at 
least a two-days’ journey. I can’t afford to delay any 
longer. Yet if I take you with me and anything hap- 
pens to you — ” He hesitated, then finished: “I’d 
never forgive myself. So what am I to do ? ” 

She got up, and her eyes shone with the warmth of 
the fire. 

“I — I might be able to help you,” she suggested 
rather timidly, as though afraid he would scorn the 
idea. “I ’ve hindered you so much that the least I 
can do is to try to make amends. Oh, I realize what 
you ’re thinking, that I am a woman and would only be 
a burden, but — ” 

“No,” he interrupted, “I wasn’t thinking that — I 
was thinking of you. God knows, from a selfish stand- 
point, I would be glad enough for your companionship ! 
But aside from the physical danger, there are other 
things to reckon with. That ’s the trouble with people ; 
they don’t consider the future. And if we come out of 
this alive, there ’s a future. It ’s all right for me; but 
you — you ’re a woman. And the public does n ’t credit 
any man with honor, or any woman with self-respect, 


FEVER 


26 ? 


if they ’re thrown together under other than conven- 
tional circumstances. Don’t you see what people will 
say when they leam of it? And they will learn of it 
— and you can’t ignore their opinions. They couldn’t 

understand, damn them; rather, they wouldn't 

You see?” Another pause, and he repeated: “You 
see?” 

She nodded. “ Yet I ’m here ’ ’ — helplessly. 

“Yet you’re here,” he echoed, with a gesture of 
futility. 

He strode away; turned back at a sudden thought. 

“Of course, there ’s one thing I ’ve overlooked in my 
masculine egotism. It just occurred to me that you 
— you might be afraid to go with me.” 

“No,” she interposed very quietly — and to him the 
world seemed to expand to greater dimensions. “No. 
I am not afraid.” That was all. Yet it thrilled him. 

After a few seconds he resumed. 

“You must promise to do as I say; and without 
asking questions. I ’ve given my word, you know. Be- 
fore we reach Tali-fang you ’ll have to be fixed up like 
a Hindu. You can be my brother, or anything you 
like. I ’ll teach you a few more Hindustani words — 
necessary words. You won’t have to talk much, if any. 
There will be hardships — many — but — ” He furrowed 
his hair. “There ’s no alternative.” 

Then, glancing down at the bracelet, he took it off. 

“Here—” 

“Won’t you keep it?” she asked. “I sent it with a 
plea for succor, and you came. According to the cus- 


268 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


tom, you are my bracelet-brother, sworn to honor and 
protect. So won’t you keep it, as Humayun, the Great 
Mogul, kept the bracelet of Kurnavati, the Rani of 
Chitor ? ” 

For answer he slipped the golden circlet over his 
hand. The girl, with a swift smile, turned and went 
into the tent. And, being a man, he could not know it 
was for the express purpose of crying. 


CHAPTER X 


caravan- 


head, above a sea of indigo poppies, rose the walls 



r\ of Tali-fang. Blue poppies rippled eastward and 
north to the foot of blue mountains (the seamed, 
craggy wastes that bulwarked Tibet) ; rippled westward 
and south until they melted into the blue haze of un- 
certain distance. Thus the city, with its dun-colored 
walls, swam in the poppies like an island against whose 
battlemented shore blue waves surged and tossed. 

The cavalcade that rode through the veritable tunnel 
under the ramparts was hardly one to arouse suspicion 
in the mind of the blear-eyed Yunnanese soldier who 
drowsed in the damp dismal shadow of this gateway 
that was almost as ancient as China itself and under 
which at least one fifth of the opium that finds its way 
mysteriously to the Coast, and thence over the rim of 
the earth, had passed. To him it was merely a string 
of burdened, tired-looking mules, four half -naked sav- 
ages — yehjen, as the Chinese call the hill-folk of Upper 
Burma — and two swarthy, turbaned men that he could 
not immediately classify and was too indolent, too 
saturated with drugs, to conjecture about. 

Tali-fang was small and sprawling. Flies swarmed 
over it, as over a corpse, and the odor of it was very 
like that of the dead. Misty-eyed, morbific beings — 


269 


270 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


neither Trent nor Dana Charteris could call them human 
— lounged in the doorways of filthy houses: Mossos, 
Loutses, Chinese and Tibetans. City, inhabitants, all, 
seemed as old and iniquitous as sin itself. 

After numerous inquiries they were directed to the 
yamen of the Tchentai, or military chief — a house with 
upcurling eaves, surrounded by a wall. A soldier in- 
formed them that his Excellency Fong Wa, the Tchen- 
tai, was at present indisposed, but if they would go to 
the inn he would send for them at the proper time. 

The caravanserai was a mean, stinking place. If 
there was a khan-keeper he was nowhere in evidence. 
The hovel was deserted. Late in the afternoon two 
Mussulman soldiers appeared and told Trent that the 
Tchentai would receive him, and with Masein in tow 
(He left Dana Charteris, a slim, boyish figure, hair 
bound under a turban, sitting in a dejected heap in 
the courtyard) he followed them to the yamen of Fong 
Wa. 

The mandarin was waiting in a court where orange- 
trees and pomegranates dappled the ground with shadow. 
From the manner in which he greeted Trent the latter 
suspected that the Chinaman knew he was white. His 
green eyes — vicious, cunning eyes — looked out from 
beneath puffed lids. As he talked a flat-breasted slat- 
tern attended him with a pipe and poppy treacle. 

“I expected you many days before this,” said his 
Excellency, through Masein. ‘'I trust you have not 
been ill.” 


CARAVAN 


271 


Trent replied that he had. After a few more cour- 
tesies, including gifts, the yellow man presented Trent 
with a wrapped packet. 

“She who intrusted these papers into my keeping 
passed on the night of the new moon.” Then, con- 
cluding the interview, he added : 1 1 Certain supplies and 

mules, together with a makotou and three mafus, will 
be sent to you some time to-morrow. You will then 
proceed as she directed.” 

“I wish to leave immediately,” Trent told him. “I 
am late now.” 

“That is quite impossible,” answered the mandarin, 
abruptly. “All is not ready.” 

“But if I was expected before this, then why aren’t 
they ready?” 

The Tchentai was not pleased with that question. 
The green eyes flickered. 

“It is enough that I say it is impossible,” he replied 
curtly. “I am military chief of Tali-fang. My word 
is law.” 

Trent suspected that the Chinaman, knowing he was 
white, was deliberately taking the opportunity to dis- 
play his authority. He was muscle-sore and brain-tired, 
and the prospect of spending the night in this mori- 
bund city did not cheer him. With a slight movement 
he parted his jacket; the oval of coral lay against his 
stained skin. 

“Tell his Excellency,” he instructed Masein, noticing 
by Fong Wa’s expression that he saw the pendant, 


272 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


1 ‘ that I demand the supplies and pack-animals to-night, 
now; and if he refuses, I shall report it to one whose 
authority reaches many miles beyond Tali-fang.” 

Revolutions have been ignited by fewer and less veiled 

words than those The Chinaman’s eyes burned 

like chrysoprase, and for a moment the Englishman 
thought he had lost. Then Fong Wa spoke and Masein 
translated. 

“Your threats are useless, yet I will see what I can 
do.” And Masein did not put into English the chu-kou , 
or pig-dog, that his Excellency added. 

Trent left the yamen of the military chief in a very 
troubled state of mind. He knew he had struck flint 
— knew also that despite Fong Wa’s evident fear of the 
“one whose authority reaches many miles beyond Tali- 
fang,” there were ways and means of diverting cir- 
cumstance to his cunning. For himself he had little 
fear; Dana Charteris was the source of concern. 

A short distance away, one of the soldiers who had 
summoned Trent to the mandarin’s house approached 
and addressed him in very bad English. 

“ Tajen he began, “seven days ago a Buddhist 
priest passed this way and left a message for you with 
Fong Wa. Because the Tchentai was angry, he did not 
give it to you. For three taels I will steal it and bring 
it to you.” 

Trent considered a moment before he said — 

“When you deliver the message to me, I will give you 
three taels. ” 


CARAVAN 273 

This evidently satisfied the soldier, who grinned and 
hurried off toward the mandarin ’s residence. 

“I think we’ll leave Tali-fang to-night,” Trent in- 
formed Dana Chart eris when he reached the khan. 
“It ’s the wisest move — for more than one reason. Sup- 
pose you rest; we may have to ride into the night, or 
until morning.” 

The girl shook her head. ‘ 1 1 am not tired. ’ ’ 

He saw that the town had tainted her — that she was 
struggling with one of those rare moments when glamour 
tarnished and she was close to surrender to her feelings. 
She had shone fine courage during the journey, flexing 
herself to meet every circumstance. Pure metal was 
behind those eyes. And it amazed him that she could 
meet the tests of the wilds and lose none of the feminine. 
(A romanticist always, this Trent, seeking in woman 
those elements that keep her in the vestal niche.) At 
times the call of her vibrated through his every nerve 
— but he had not forgot the circlet of gold. “Bracelet- 
brother.” That he would be until they returned to 
metaled roads and electric-tramways; then the lover, 
with the lover’s message to deliver 

“Don’t trouble about me,” she said. “When we 
get into the open spaces again it will be different ; there 
our lungs won’t be poisoned.” 

While Masein was cooking the evening meal the sol- 
dier who told of the purloined message appeared and in 
exchange for three taels pressed a folded sheet of rice- 
paper into Trent’s hand. By the firelight the English- 


274 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


man inspected it. It was written in Urdu and ran: 

They tell a tale of Chunda Ram, the juggler, who made 
two cobras dance; of a mongoose that entered a lair and 
instead of vipers found a fat-bellied spider; of a lioness 
that guarded her whelps. You shall hear it — this tale of 
tales — from Rabsang Lama, who has journeyed north, into 
the falcon’s country. 

That was all — no signature. Trent read it and re- 
read it. A fourth time his eyes traveled over the 
cryptic lines before he mined their meaning. Then he 
chuckled. Kerth — Kerth of many identities — was the 
lama who had passed through Tali-fang seven days 
before, and it was he who arrested Da-yak and Tam- 
busami. The spider was Li Kwai Kung ; the lioness the 
British Empire. The message came as a rift in gloom. 

Perceiving the soldier who had brought the missive 
still standing close by, he directed a questioning look 
at him. 

“I would speak with you alone, Tajen,” he said. 

Trent started to rise, but Masein and the porters 
were not within earshot and he decided otherwise. 

4 ‘Speak. This’ ’ — indicating the girl — 4 4 is my brother. 
What I know he knows/ ’ 

Trent could have sworn that the soldier winked at 
him slyly as he said 4 ‘brother,” but it was too dark to 
be sure. 

“Tajen, I came to warn you,” he announced. “Fong 
Wa is not kindly disposed since your visit. He will 
send the mules and supplies, because he is a coward; 
but he has made it impossible for you to leave the city 


CAKAVAN 275 

to-night. All gates closet at sunset, and he has issued 
an order that no caravan pass in or out.” 

Trent thought for some time before he spoke. Finally : 

‘‘What reason has he to wish to prevent me from leav- 
ing to-night?” 

The soldier shrugged. 

“Ma-chai,” he replied — which is the superlative of 
indifference. 

That the Oriental had some ulterior motive Trent 
did not doubt for an instant. In a land where three 
thousand years of intrigue has bred a suspicious people, 
a kindly act is not the best symptom. He did not waste 
words, but asked : 

“Why do you tell me this?” 

Another shrug. “Iam houi-koui,” he explained, that 
is to say, a Chinese Mussulman. “Fong Wa is a Lama- 
ist dog. He is a leech that sucks blood from the people. 
They hate him. He never pays the soldiers and many 
are deserting to go down the Yangtze, where a war is 
brewing.” 

Trent kept silent, waiting to hear the purpose behind 
this introductory talk. The soldier was a reckless-look- 
ing fellow. The edge of his scant turban touched eyes 
that gleamed with a light inherited from a succession of 
robber-ancestors. An amiable young villain, he imag- 
ined. 

“My name is Kee Meng,” the Oriental volunteered. 
“My father was Tibetan, my mother Mosso. But I am 
Yunnanese. Oh, I have traveled much! Chung-king — 
even Hankow! I was makotou for an English Tajenho 


276 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


who went from Liangchowfu to Urga. See,” — he drew 
a piece of paper from under his jacket — “this is a letter 
he wrote saying I was a very fine makotou — only he 
called me bashi — the very best in China. Read it, 
Tajen.” 

Trent took the paper ; glanced over it ; waited. 

“I will tell you something else, Tajen,” Kee Meng 
continued. “Your makotou and mafus are spies. She 
who passed on the night of the new moon told them to 
watch you and report to her at Shingtse-lunpo. I heard 
her. They are dogs and thieves, those muleteers. ’ ’ 
Then he bent closer, as though afraid he would be over- 
heard. “Tajen, I know the road to Shingtse-lunpo — I 
and my three friends. We have been there often to de- 
liver messages from Fong Wa to the Grand Lama. Fong 
Wa is a tool of the lamas. He is a fool. We are tired 
of Tali-fang, my friends and I. We will serve you well. 
We are cheap. Only twenty taels a month. And look, 
Tajen ” 

He turned and called a word, and three blue-jack- 
eted, turbaned soldiers, each as reckless-looking as Kee 
Meng, entered and saluted Trent. 

“See? Are they not fine muleteers?” 

Instead of answering, Trent asked a question: 

“What else do you know of her who passed on the 
night of the new moon — and a certain bird that roosts 
in Tibet ? ’ ’ 

1 1 She w T ho passed on the night of the new moon ? ’ ’ the 
Oriental echoed. “Of her I know nothing, except that 
she would spy upon the Tajen, who, according to what 


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she told Fong Wa, is Tajenho in his country. And the 
bird — ” He looked genuinely puzzled. “There are 
many birds in Tibet — kites and vultures! There are 
yaks, too, if the Tajen wishes to shoot.” 

Satisfied on that score, Trent went on : 

“But what of my muleteers? I can’t dismiss them. 
And if it’s impossible to leave the city to-night — ” 

“Tajen” Kee Meng broke in, “I know a way. Only 
speak the word and your four muleteers will disappear — 
like that!” And he made a gesture. “Then we, my 
friends and I, will lead you out of Tali-fang to-night; 
and Fong Wa will not know until it is too late. Once 
we are beyond the Yolon-noi, he has no power over us. 
He is Tchentai of only this district. By riding all night 
we would be in Tibet before sunrise — and there — ” He 
made another gesture. 

“How do I know you ’re telling the truth?” queried 
Trent, putting forth a feeler. A plan was shaping in 
his mind. He did not look at Dana Charteris, but he 
felt her eyes upon him, felt, too, that she read his 
thoughts. 

“By Allah!” declared the Mussulman (and a Mussul- 
man’s oath to his God is not so flexible as that of a 
Buddhist or a Christian). “May I wither and turn 
black if Hie!” 

“What of my muleteers?” Trent pursued. 

Kee Meng winked. ‘ ‘ Ah, that is easy ! ’ ’ 

“You wouldn’t — ” 

“Oh no, Tajen! We will not kill them!” the soldier 
exclaimed virtuously — but he smiled. “There is an 


278 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


unused house near the North Gate, and under the house 
is a cellar where opium is stored. We will hide them 
there, and they will not be found until morning.” 

“But how will we get out of the city?” Trent inter- 
rogated. 

“Give me five taels and I will fix it. Mo-su, who 
guards the North Gate, is a poor man and a fool. Oh, it 
is easy if one is clever, as I am ! Your mules and sup- 
plies are at the Tchentai ’s ; to reach here they must pass 

through dark streets. We are strong Then we 

can take your caravan to the North Gate, while one of 
us returns for you. We each have a mule. Oh yes, it 
will be easy, Tajen!” 

Trent knew Kee Meng’s type. “He who would ride 
a wild camel must first teach him who is master,” says 
a proverb. These villainous-looking young brigands 
could fight — if the proper inducement were provided. 
It would be reassuring to know he had allies, few though 
they were. As for Sarojini Nanjee — “Set a spy on the 
heels of a spy,” runs another proverb. It was not 
breaking his word to her; there was nothing in the 
agreement to prevent him from exchanging caravan- 

men Too, he would feel safer beyond the reach 

of Fong Wa. He did not like those green eyes. Yet it 
was a desperate risk. 

‘ ‘ What do you know of this city, this Shingtse-lunpo ? ’ ’ 

“I know that there are many lamas there, Tajen — 
oh, many, like the blades of grass! There is a monas- 
tery called Lhakang-gompa, whose roofs are gold and 
whose walls are as white as the sky at midday! The 


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279 


holy city of Lhassa is an open book beside it. Soldiers 
of the Golden Army guard every approach. There 
dwells the High Lama of all lamas.” 

Trent credited the “roofs of gold” to the elasticity of 
the native mind. 

‘ ‘ That is strange, 7 7 he commented, baiting the Mussul- 
man. “If it is so great a city, then why do not the 
English, who sent an army to Lhassa and routed the 
Dalai Lama, know of it ? White men have been in Tibet. 
If there is such a city, why has no one heard of it?” 

Kee Meng shrugged. 

“White men have been in Tibet, yes — but not in that 
part .... Tibet has its secrets, Tajen; she guards 
them well. My father, who was a Tibetan, said so.” 

After a pause Trent went on: 

“There 7 s nothing to prevent you or your comrades 
from deserting me when we get under way. What as- 
surance have I?” 

“We swear by Allah to go with you to Shingtse- 
lunpo,” said Kee Meng, “and from there wherever you 
wish to travel — so long as we receive twenty taels a 
month and half of the first month’s pay in advance 
now ! ’ 7 

Accordingly, Kee Meng’s comrades took oath. 

“And obey me,” Trent added. 

“And obey you,” the Mussulmen repeated. 

Trent reached under his jacket, where his money-belt 
was concealed, and counted out twenty-five taels. 

‘ ‘ Five for the guard at the gate , 7 7 he explained, ‘ ‘ and 
five apiece for the four of you. When we leave Tali- 


280 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


fang yon will each receive the other five agreed upon.” 

“Cheulo!” agreed Kee Meng. Then he let his eyes 
rove over the packs and mules. “Have everything 
ready in an hour. Fong Wa expects you to try to leave 
to-night, so we will take your guides and mules to the 
gate and there transfer the packs to the fresh mules, 
sending back the men and old mules. If Fong Wa is 
watching, he will see them and believe you are returning 
to the inn. He will be very angry to-morrow, but he 
will not dare touch your porters, for they are yehjen. 
Remember — in an hour.” 

The villainous-looking quartet quitted the courtyard, 
and Trent, watching them go, wondered if he had acted 
wisely. 

“Your bodyguards when we reach Shingtse-lunpo, ” he 
said, turning to Dana Charteris and smiling slightly; 
then, glancing at the rice-paper in his hand, he added: 

“From Euan Kerth He ’s on the way to the 

Falcon’s city, as a lama.” 


2 

At the appointed time Kee Meng returned. 

“All is well, Tajen ;” he told Trent. “My friends 
are waiting at the gate, with the caravan.” 

The small pack-train was assembled, and they left the 
inn. Kee Meng walked beside Trent. The Englishman 
let one hand rest upon the revolver strapped to his 
thigh; the girl riding at his side nervously fingered a 
corrugated butt. The streets were dim and for the most 
part deserted. Now and then doors opened and eyes 


CARAVAN 


281 


peered out, invisible but felt. Tali-fang lay in a se- 
pulchral hush, its quiet only emphasized by jingling har- 
ness-chains and the dull, muffled beat of hoofs. 

Trent’s breathing quickened as they approached the 
walls. The tunnel leading to the gate yawned cavern- 
ously. In its gloom the pale eye of a lantern wavered. 
A mule brayed hideously as they rode into the foul ar- 
tery. By the faint rays of the lantern Trent saw mules 
and ponies, packs and bulging saddle-bags; saw Kee 
Meng’s villainous-looking comrades and a gaunt in- 
dividual whom he imagined was the gateman. Kee Meng 
pressed him forward between the ill-smelling beasts. 
Dana Charteris was by his side. They dismounted. 

There was a rasping sound and the ponderous gates 
swung apart. Starlight gleamed upon spiked panels. 
Framed in the archway were mountains and sky — dark 
loam smeared upon the firmament. A breath of clean 
air penetrated into the tunnel. 

“Tajen, you and your brother get into the saddles,” 
whispered Kee Meng. “I will tell your men to wait a 
few minutes before they go back to the inn.” 

Mule-harness rattled. One of the men uttered a 
sharp command, and a protesting quadruped moved 
through the gateway — another behind it. The mules 
were strung together, led by a man on foot. More jin- 
gling of harness ; the soft pad-pad of hoofs. 

Dana Charteris was trembling as Trent helped her 
upon her mount. The pony’s coat was sleek and moist 
under his touch. He swung into his own saddle. 
.... The gates closed behind him. A figure that 


282 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


looked like Kee Meng led the girl’s pony forward, after 
the file of mules. 

They were again in the clean temple of the open 
spaces. 

.... Tali-fang fell away in the rear — a pale blot on 
the dim shivering mass of the poppy-fields. They 
skirted a hamlet not far from the city’s walls. Dogs 

snarled; once more doors opened The ground 

sloped ever upward, and from shadowy forests came 
the healing smell of pines. A buttressed range im- 
pended, its peaks virgin with snow — rugged mountains 
where in places the sides were sheer and rose to shudder- 
some heights. Toward this mighty chaos of rock — vomit 
of some earth-ailment — the road plunged. 

Thus began the Yolon-noi Pass. 

Loose stones rattled under the feet of the animals, 
and a wind, chilled in the cisterns of the night, swept 
down the canon, shaking the scraggly growths and ani- 
mating the shadows. The pass had narrowed to a mere 
rift where not more than four men could ride abreast. 
It seemed a place of shrieking demons when a mule 
brayed, for the wind snatched up the sound and carried 
it from boulder to boulder, until it perished in a weird 
echo upon the serrated ridges. 

Just before midnight the moon rose and sent the 
gloom scurrying, and jackals laughed as though to mock 
the terrors that a moment ago seemed so real. Moon- 
light shone on scintillant rock ; the loftiest, snow-capped 
peaks gleamed like palest nacre Trent rode be- 

side Dana Charter is. The caravan-men and the pack- 


CARAVAN 


283 


animals were ahead, moving with a slow, uneven rhythm, 
the long line of laden beasts casting distorted shadows 
upon the road. 

“0 Arnold Trent, I could cry for sheer joy!” 
whispered the girl. “ Can’t you feel the night singing 
in your veins? Tibet! To think I should ever reach 
it!” 

Trent’s throat tightened, and the wind sang one word 
— Tibet! Tibet ! — over and over in his ears. He rode 
on, so flooded with awe, with an overwhelming sense of 
majesty, that it was impossible to speak. Presently the 
girl, obeying an impulse, tore off her turban. Her hair 
tumbled over her shoulders, and the wind caught truant 
strands and made sport of them. 

Through the night they traveled; traveled until the 
high walls broke up into lower ridges and ravines; un- 
til the moon rolled over the peaks and into oblivion, 
and the stars passed, as tapers that grow dim and die. 
The gorge opened its mouth into a valley that lay be- 
tween green, snow-tipped mountains. With dawn they 
came to a halt, and the muleteers set up the shelters. 
The girl, tired from the long ride, fell asleep almost in- 
stantly, but Trent sat in front of his tent for nearly 
an hour, smoking and gazing into the haze of ruddy gold 
that hid the City of the Falcon. 

3 

Looking back upon the journey to Shingtse-lunpo, 
Trent saw it in a series of pictures — the days painted 
with vivid, glaring fftgments, the nights pasteled in 


284 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


blended hues. It was not the Tibet of his imagination, 
the Tibet of drear, waterless stretches shut in by bas- 
tioned mountains, unscalable, snow-helmeted guards. 
True, for two days after the passing of the Chino-Tib- 
etan divide and the Mekong (they were swung across 
this great river, at a giddy height, on a rope bridge) 
bleak ranges lifted themselves in heaps of purple and 
dun, crowned with flame as the sun gilded their snowy 
ramparts; but after that the ground was mildly un- 
dulating — nullahs and hills and thin forests. 

The fourth day marked their entrance into a country 
of little vegetation, a world of dull tints — those lifeless 
shades of brown found in a camel’s coat. The earth 
was sterile; even the sky seemed unyielding, an aching 
womb of light. Fine dust settled upon the body and in 
the nostrils and throat. 

Of people they saw comparatively little. The vil- 
lages generally consisted of a huddle of houses close 
to a spur of ground, upon the highest point of which a 
lamasery perched, like a lammergier hovering over 
mulch and decay. The lamas, Trent learned, were of 
the Yellow Cap Order — a sullen, suspicious lot. 

Trent tried, whenever it was practicable, to avoid 
human beings; he was not so much afraid of the pene- 
trability of his own disguise as that of the girl. The 
caravans they encountered now and then — strings of 
men and mules and yaks — were a constant dread to 
him; not the Tibetans (they were a careless, friendly 
type, these men and women of Kham), but the priests 
who usually accompanied them. In every instance the 


CARAVAN 


285 


lamas inquired through Kee Meng the destination of 
the pack-train. 

The wind was usually chilling, except at midday when 
the earth quivered behind a brassy curtain of mirage 
and the glare of sunlight on quartz-like rocks was blind- 
ing. Sunset — a phenomenon of Tibet — was a source 
of never-ending wonder to both Trent and Dana Char- 
ters. It flared in five distinct bars, like a crimson 
aurora, and died away when dusk swept a mauve brush 
across the west. Nightfall brought bitter winds. Stars 
glittered coldly, points of whitest flame; and when the 
moon came out it glistened like an icy planet reeling 
through space. 

Trent grew to trust Kee Meng and his comrades — 
to a degree. It was a common occurrence for him to 
catch one or the other stealing from the provisions, and 
more than once he discovered gold and turquoise orna- 
ments filched from a temple in some village where they 
remained overnight. Twice Trent’s electric pocket-lamp 
disappeared, only to be found each time among the 
possessions of Kee Meng, who burned with a steady 
passion to own it. Trent maintained rigid discipline 
over his quartet of genial ’young brigands, who Would 
have been impossible to rule otherwise; and whereas 
they learned he was master of the caravan and to be 
obeyed at all times, he could not tear down the walls 
of instinct which generations of hung-hu-tzee ancestors 
had fixed so immovably in them. 

.... The journey wove into a tapestry of monoto- 
nous colors stretching over a loom of many days, and 


286 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


through it all, like a silver thread, ran his association 
with Dana Charteris. His every chord of feeling re- 
sponded to the age-old symphony of a woman unfolding 
to a man (the glorious hymn of the universe) .... He 
knew there were times, after he had wrapped himself 
in his blanket for the night, that she wept from sheer 
exhaustion, tortured physically by the hard travel and 
mentally by the ever-present portent of danger which 
the very atmosphere seemed to speak. But not once 
did he see evidence of it, nor did she complain. After 
a day of riding, himself sweaty and caked with dust, 
his every sinew strained to the utmost, the moral effect 
of her presence was a narcotic. 

Despite the discomforts and the uncertainty of what 
lay ahead, something serene came to him out of the 
silence. He saw it in the girl’s eyes, too — this intangible 
thing that the far spaces breed in the hearts of men 
and that lies slumbering until they have returned to 
civilization, where, in the midst of crowded, suffocating 
cities, it awakens suddenly, drawing them back to the 
trackless wastes they once had hated and cursed. The 
intense light on the hills; the glow of firelight in the 
dusk; the cry of a wolf wavering through the night — 
they were the small incidents that would cling to the 
memory and, later, seem the salient features of a 
weird, fascinating scroll of recollections. 

Green-roofed temples and whitewashed lamaseries 
daily became more numerous. They squatted on 
every eminence and were habited by crimson-togaed 


CARAVAN 


287 


monks — hundreds of men and boys who rattled prayer- 
wheels and muttered “ Om mani Padme hums” before 
greasy idols. The presence of women in those lamaist 
communities ceased to be a novelty; rather, a question. 
They were not unlovely, in their loose garments and 
turquoise-studded bandeaus, but their instinctive hos- 
tility toward any form of ablution disqualified them 
from meeting Western standards of beauty. 

Thus the journey wore on, and thus, on the evening 
of the seventh day, they camped on the edge of a 
marshy lake, within view of scarped hills behind which 
Shingtse-lunpo, the mysterious, lay. 


CHAPTER XI 


CITY OF THE FALCON 

D AWN gave birth to a day that for Trent and Dana 
Charteris was surcharged with expectancy and 
apprehension. Ridges broke up the horizon, hiding the 
country beyond, as though fate and nature had con- 
spired to preclude until the last moment a view of 
Shingtse-lunpo. Before another night they should be 
within the walls of the city. 

Just before noon they rode over a crest and saw 
a high tchorten, or rock pyramid. Yak-hair tents were 
pitched at its base, and a band of men, mounted on 
white ponies and carrying yellow-pennoned lances, clat- 
tered across the valley to meet them. 

“They are soldiers of the Golden Army,” Kee Meng 
announced. 

As the horsemen drew nearer, Trent could see that 
they wore neutral-colored tunics and black leather caps, 
the latter having a strap under the chin and a golden, 
flame-shaped ornament attached to the top. Gold- 
hilted swords glittered in black belts, and several of 
the men carried queer, ancient-looking guns embossed 
with turquoise and coral. They came up in a cloud 
of dust, like figures riding out of history, and the leader 
stuck out his tongue by way of greeting. He examined 
288 


CITY OF THE FALCON 289 

their passports and assigned two soldiers — “to accom- 
pany us to Amber Bridge, ’ ’ Kee Meng explained. 

With their escort they rode on toward the heat- 
twisted, quivering horizon that, in its very illusiveness, 
symbolized the uncertainty that filled both Trent and 
the girl. Neither spoke, but sat erect on their mounts, 
staring steadily, until their eyes ached, into the white 
sunlight. 

The hot midday was waning when they reached the 
top of a shoulder of ground and looked upon the city. 
At first it was a long white blur upon the distant ranges, 
separated from the plain that surrounded it by a belt 
of green; then it assumed shape and form, and they 
saw it, walls and golden roofs, floating like a fabulous 
Atlantis in the liquid sunlight. A white bulk, seeming 
the extravagant creation of a mirage, towered above the 
walls. Gradually it emerged from the deceptive heat- 
waves and stood out, defined, a massive building, dom- 
inating the crenellated heap of masonry at its feet. 
The city’s ramparts were high, yielding only a glimpse 
of roof-tops and the buttressed structure that was sil- 
houetted in blinding white upon the aquamarine sky. 

“The great building/ ’ said Kee Meng, “is Lhakang- 
gompa, of which I told you — the palace and temple of 
the Grand Lama . 9 9 

As they rode nearer, passing barley fields and isolated 
groups of houses, it became evident that the belt of 
green encircling Shingtse-lunpo was a marsh. Ap- 
parently an outer fortification at one time stood in the 
swamp, for piles of broken stone reared themselves at 


290 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


intervals from the rush-encumbered quagmires, like the 
bones of a half -buried and bleaching skeleton. On the 
edge of the morass, flung across a stream, was a bridge ; 
a stone causeway, perhaps a mile in length, linked it 
with what Trent imagined was the main gate of the 
city proper. The bridge itself — “Amber Bridge,” Kee 
Meng had called it — was of mellowed stone, its enclosing 
walls supporting a roof glazed with tiles and inset 
with great lumps of raw amber. Prayer-flags drooped 
from the top. 

Thus Shingtse-lunpo, the City of the Falcon, revealed 
herself to them for the first time, like an orient dream- 
city in the golden noonday. 

As they approached Amber Bridge, two familiar lines 
sprang into Trent’s mind and repeated themselves over 
and over: 

With gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze, 

And burnished domes half seen through luminous haze. 

In the silence, sovereign but for the footfalls of the 
animals and the creak of sweaty saddles, he heard the 
swift breathing of the girl who rode at his side — saw 
the wonderment, the expression of fascination, of awe, 
that reflected in her face. Brown eyes were deep with 
mystery. 

At the bridge they were halted by more leather- 
helmeted guards who, after glancing at their passports, 
held a short conversation with the two soldiers from the 
outpost, then explained, through the usual channel of 
translation, that Trent’s caravan would have to remain 


CITY OF THE FALCON 291 

at Amber Bridge until the news of their arrival was 
communicated to “certain authorities’’ in the city. 

A soldier dashed off along the causeway, while Trent, 
vaguely troubled, allowed his pony to be led into a 
mud-walled compound at one side of the road. There 
he and the other members of the caravan dismounted, 
and there they waited, somewhat apprehensive, for over 
an hour. 

When the messenger returned he was accompanied by 
a small cortege, all soldiers but one, who, from his 
dress, was a dignitary of the city. He rode a white 
horse and wore a robe of orange-yellow brocaded silk, 
its wide sleeves faced with peacock-blue. A mushroom- 
shaped hat surmounted copper-hued Tibetan features. 
He greeted Trent very graciously in English and in- 
formed him that he was Na-chung, a member of the 
Higher Council, that meaning, he explained, those who 
assisted the Governor. He said that no doubt it was 
surprising to hear him speak English, but that he had 
learned it from a British officer at Gyangtse, at the time 

of the expedition to Lhassa His Transparency 

the Governor, he stated, had been expecting him for 
several days and his delay had caused his Transparency 
no small concern. Then he looked over Trent’s men 
— and when his eyes reached Dana Charteris they halted. 
It was, for Trent, a breathless moment. But Na-chung 
smiled amiably and said: 

‘ ‘ I understood there were to be only four caravaneers. 
You have five.” 

Trent replied that none of the four assigned to him 


292 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


at Tali-fang spoke Tibetan — and how could he travel 
in Tibet without an interpreter? Therefore, he had 
presumed to add another to his caravan. . . . 

Na-chung continued to smile. “I see,” he com- 
mented. “And this is the one you added?” — with a 
gesture toward the girl. 

“No,” returned Trent. “This one” — indicating Kee 
Meng. 

“I see,” repeated Na-chung. “We shall go into the 
city now, to the house which the Governor has provided 
for you.” 

The incident at Amber Bridge had a depressing 
effect upon Trent and he scarcely heard the inconse- 
quential talk of Na-chung as they moved slowly over 
the causeway toward the ramparts of Shingtse-lunpo. 
But when they passed the gates — formidable, iron-stud- 
ded affairs, with turrets at either side — his fears were 
temporarily thrust into the background. For the walls 
of Shingtse-lunpo only hinted at what they enclosed. 

Beyond the main town, which sloped down into a 
depression and was a wilderness of narrow streets and 
dazzling whitewashed houses (some roofed with blue 
tiles, others with burnished gold), the ground rose to 
the one dominating structure — the Lamasery that stood, 
sheer-walled, upon sharply truncated rocks. Its mas- 
sive bulk — longer than two city blocks, Trent hazarded 
— was pierced by row upon row of windows that seemed 
no larger than loopholes, and naked walls fell away 
from torn roofs and terrace-like additions. There were 
other large buildings and tiers of houses, the doors of 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


293 


the upper rows opening upon the roofs of those below, 
but they cowered beneath the regal mass of Lhakang- 
gompa, an architectural masterpiece that rose at least 
two hundred feet from its natural foundations and 
which Trent could compare only with the descriptions 
he had heard of the Potala at Lhassa. 

From the main gate the road cleaved between brick- 
walled enclosures and hedges of bamboo. Beggars, rag- 
ged, repulsive-looking creatures, whined at the road- 
side, and dogs and swine nosed in the black, bubbling 
mud of the gutters. Blenching human bones lay beside 
discolored slabs of stone, and mailed dragonflies, drawn 
by the smell of carrion flesh, hovered near. 1 

From this filthy quarter they passed over another 
bridge and into a highway that lay in the shadows of 
fortress-like buildings. It was crowded with tonsured, 
magenta-robed priests. Mounted soldiers, the majority 
in neutral-tinted tunics, but some few wearing royal- 
blue and apricot-hued uniforms, threaded across the 
crimson swarm in a human shuttle, while men and 
women in less gaudy apparel moved inconspicuously 
through the throng. Yak-hair curtains and prayer- 
flags drooped from the windows of houses. 

“You arrived at a time of celebration, ’ ’ said Na- 
chung. “The Feast of the Sacred Dance began yester- 
day. To-day the races were held on the Field of Cere- 
monies, and to-morrow will be celebrated by the Dance 

i In Tibet it is the custom to deliver the dead to a sect of pro- 
fessional body-hackers, who, in turn, feed the remains to the dogs 
and vultures. Thus merit is acquired by the family of the de- 
ceased. 


294 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


of the Gods, wrestling-bouts and the archery contest.” 

Na-chung proved most voluble. He talked on as they 
forsook the crowded street for a quarter close to the 
lamasery. The soldiers, who were leading, opened a 
gate in a high white wall, and the caravan moved into 
a flagged court. 

The dwelling was typical of the better Tibetan resi- 
dences, low and flat-roofed, and in the shape of a 
quadrangle. To the left, beyond a huddle of out-houses, 
was a garden. Willow-thorn, clematis and — hollyhocks ! 
The scarlet flowers, pure flame in the sunlight, gave 
something of warming welcome to Trent. 

Na-chung led the way into the house. The main hall 
was dank, like an empty cistern, and lighted by an 
opening in the ceiling, which served a twofold purpose 
in that it was also a means of reaching the upper floor. 
There were little or no furnishings, and narrow pas- 
sages, black with gloom, led off from it. 

“It would be advisable,” said Na-chung as he pre- 
pared to leave, “that you do not leave your courtyard; 
that is, until you have been provided with proper gar- 
ments. I shall acquaint his Transparency with your 
presence, and in the morning one will be sent to” — the 
councillor smiled — “to remove your beard and clothe 
you as befits a member of the Higher Council. To- 
morrow I shall return and accompany you to the Court 
of Ceremonies, after which his Transparency will no 
doubt receive you.” Then, following a pause, “It has 
been deemed advisable to elevate you to membership in 
the Higher Council — for appearances only, as your 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


295 


duties will be quite different from those of a councillor. ’ ’ 

He took his leave then, and Trent accompanied him 
into the court. He observed that Na-chung left two 
leather-helmeted soldiers at the gate, whether to act 
as bodyguards, or to see that he did not leave the 
grounds, he could only surmise. 

2 

Trent and Dana Charteris made a thorough inspection 
of the house. The rooms were clean, as clean as Tibetan 
rooms ever are ; but the lack of proper ventilation and 
the ever-present stale-sweet odors did little to invite 
occupancy. From the roof the monastery and a por- 
tion of the town could be seen, and there, in a space 
protected by the high masonry that enclosed the house- 
top, the girl decided to quarter herself, while Trent 
chose the room directly beneath. 

Before sundown, while Dana Charteris was overseeing 
the transportation of her packs to her elevated abode, 
Trent sought Kee Meng and found him in the quad- 
rangle. 

“I am going to place my brother in your charge,” 
he announced. “I will probably be away from him 
much of the time, and if anything happens to him — ” 
He chose to leave the sentence unfinished. (Trent 
always spoke of the girl as his “brother,” although it 
was tacitly understood that Kee Meng knew she was 
not a man.) 

“ Cheulo !” responded the Mussulman. “Henceforth, 
instead of makotou, I am Protector-of-the-Brother ! ” 


296 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


‘ ‘And furthermore/’ Trent added, “I forbid you, or 
any of the men, to leave the grounds without my 
permission. ’ 9 

Later (dusk had swooned on Shingtse-lunpo), as Trent 
entered the main hall, which was unlighted except for 
a brass butter-lamp, he beheld a naked brown ankle 
and the bottom of a red robe as they vanished into one 
of the several black cavities opening upon the chamber. 
He stopped — then quickly backing to one side, against 
the wall, he drew his revolver and edged toward the 
passageway. When he was yet a few feet away a 
round, blue muzzle leaped out to meet him. As he re- 
coiled, the owner of the ankle and robe, a lama with 
a very modern automatic gripped in one slim hand, 
stepped out. They stood motionless for a space of sec- 
onds, each with weapon lifted. Then a familiar Satanic 
smile traced itself upon the yellow countenance — a smile 
that made the lama look Mephistophelian, despite his 
shorn head and hairless features. 

“Kerth” — as Trent lowered his revolver, smiling. 
“ Always at pistol-point. ...” 

“I was beginning to feel uneasy about you,” said 
Euan Kerth, as their hands met. ‘ * It w T as a relief when 
I saw your pack-train ride in to-day. Where can we 
go to talk — the garden ? I came that way . 9 ’ 

They left the house by a black-dark corridor, making 
their way into the grove of willow- thorn. Bright stars 
peered down through the branches, and the moon, float- 
ing above the white wall, reflected a faint, hazy light 
among the shadowy trees. 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


297 


“I ’d almost given you up,” Kerth began, baiting 
in tbe gloom beside the wall. “You were due over a 
week ago.” 

Trent had been debating with himself since the meet- 
ing in the house. Now he spoke; told Kerth of Dana 
Charteris ; of the meeting in Calcutta and the subsequent 
happenings. Kerth saw a story within a story and 
surmised certain things that Trent omitted. He was 
silent for a while after the latter finished. 

“It complicates matters, of course,” he ventured dis- 
creetly, at length, “yet .... hmm .... no, you had 
no alternative. She had nerve, all right; how many 
women would have dared to do that? Damn these med- 
dling police agents ! If it had n ’t been for her brother 
.... Hmm — and he had the Pearl Scarf ! ” A pause. 
“D ’ye think Sarojini knows of her presence?” 

‘ £ Miss Charteris ? How could she ? ’ ’ Then Trent ex- 
plained how he had exchanged muleteers at Tali-fang. 

1 ‘ Good ! ’ ’ exclaimed Kerth. ‘ ‘ Good ! That ’s a score 
against Sarojini. She ’ll raise thundering hell when she 
learns of it, but I think you can tame her — yes, you 
can do it.” 

“But tell me what happened at Myitkyina” — this 
from Trent. 

The other shrugged. “Oh, nothing much. I had 
suspected we were headed for Tibet since I learned the 
character of the god on the symbol of the Order — yet 
this” — he made a gesture intended to include the city 
— “well, this is a bit beyond my imagination.” 

Briefly he then sketched his activities at Myitkyina. 


298 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“I followed you and Da-yak to the river that night, 
then downstream in another boat. After you had 
landed, and your servant, Tambusami, in another boat, 
I swam ashore. There was one fellow waiting with the 

boats, so I slipped up behind him After that it 

wasn’t difficult. I exchanged clothing with him and 
waited. Sarojini Nanjee, dressed as a Kachin, returned 
in a few minutes, and with her, Da-yak, Tambusami and 
the boatmen. She and the Kachins took one of the 
craft downstream, I suppose to her camp, and Da-yak 
and your bearer got into the other boat — the boat where 
I was waiting. I ’d sent a note to Warburton, the C. O. 
at Myitkyina, and he was waiting at the landing with 
several Gurkhas. We didn’t have any trouble arrest- 
ing them ; the trouble came when we tried to force them 
to speak. All summed up, what they said was surpris- 
ingly little. Tambusami declared he was simply a ser- 
vant and knew nothing about the Order, except that it 
existed. But Da-yak told where you had gone, and said 
there were three men in Myitkyina who knew the trail 
to Tali-fang. One of them I later hired. Da-yak said 
that up until a year ago he had a shop in the bazaar 
at Shingtse-lunpo, which he described as ‘a great city 
where many lamas live’; that he was commanded by 
a Grand Lama to go to Myitkyina and establish a busi- 
ness. He was instructed to obey all who came to him 
with a certain symbol — the symbol of the Order. He 
swore he knew nothing of the Falcon or the jewels.” 

Kerth paused ; peered into Trent ’s face ; smiled. 

“You ’re thinking just as I wish you to think,” he 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


299 


observed ; then went on : “ Meanwhile, I ’d reported the 

place in Calcutta and it had been raided. What hap- 
pened I don ’t know. I was ready to start for Shingtse- 
lunpo the day after you left, but of course Delhi waited 
a couple of days to telegraph permission — and I was 
glad enough to get it then, for I was half afraid the 
Viceroy would refuse to let me go into Tibet. At Tali- 
f ang I learned you had n ? t passed and I left a message 
— you received it? ... . Eighteen days later I was 
inside the walls of Shingtse-lunpo — and paying homage 
to his Holiness Sakya-muni, the Buddha reincarnated.” 

4 ‘You mean,” Trent interrogated, “there ’s a lama 
here who ’s supposed to be a reincarnation of Buddha?” 

Kerth nodded. “That ’s his palace” — indicating 
Lhakang-gompa. “Oh, we ’ve stumbled into a jolly 
little nest ! It 11 take your breath when I tell you 
everything. This — Shingtse-lunpo — is everything that 
Lhassa was, and a hundred things that Lhassa never 
could be, with Lhassa ’s secretiveness and holiness in- 
tensified to the nth degree. It ’s the — well, I suppose 
one might call it the secret capital of the Lamaist hie- 
rarchy. From all I can learn, it has n’t always had the 
great significance and power that it has now; until 
a few years ago it was simply the home of a Grand 
Lama who ranked with the Tarnath Lama. Nobody 
knew of it, because explorers have n ’t covered this part 
of Tibet ; the nearest anybody ever came to this partic- 
ular strip of territory was some time ago when a 
naturalist made his way into Kham, and again, later, 
when an American doctor went to a place called Chi- 


300 CARAVANS BY NIGHT 

amdo They say the Dalai Lama actually hid 


here, in Lhakang-gompa (which, incidentally, is a fac- 
simile of the Potala at Lhassa, which I saw with the 
Mission) before he went to Urga. But that’s monkish 
gossip At any rate, here’s how I interpret af- 

fairs from all I’ve heard: 

“ After the Mission was sent to Lhassa the Dalai 
Lama lost a certain amount of prestige. The authority 
of the Tashi Lama, as you probably know, is more spir- 
itual than temporal. Englishmen had been to Lhassa 
and to Tashi-lunpo; therefore, both of their holy-of- 
holies had been profaned. The lamas — that is, the 
hierarchy — were losing their hold on the people. All 
that was before nineteen-twelve. Then the President 
of China restored Tubdan Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, to 
Lhassa. But even that failed to revive the old zeal. So 
a coup d’etat was planned. A Grand Lama had a made- 
to-order vision in which he saw the soul of Gaudama 
Siddartha descend into the body of one of the abbots. 
From that moment the abbot was Sakya-muni, Buddha 
reincarnated, and they installed him in Lhakang-gompa, 
here in Shingtse-lunpo, the secret city par excellence of 
Tibet. Lhassa and the Dalai Lama became figureheads 
— ‘to fool the British,’ as one priest put it to me. The 
monasteries of Sera, Debung and Gaden, hotbeds of 
political intrigue in the time of the Dalai Lama and the 
Buriat, Dorjieff, were no longer powerful, but sub- 
servient to Lhakang-gompa. I understand the Tashi 
Lama objected to all this, but the Yellow Caps over- 
ruled him So now Sakya-muni, with the Lamaist 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


301 


hierarchy behind him, is supreme pontiff of the Church 
— and Lhakang-gompa is the Vatican, as it were, from 
which he rules Tibet and practically all of Mongolia, 
with certain sub rosa wires that give him power in 
Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan and parts of China.’ ’ 

Trent was staring up through the branches at the 
stars, but as Kerth stopped he looked down and asked: 

“ Did n’t you say you had an audience with him?” 

Kerth ’s shaven skull nodded. “Yes. The Living 
Buddha wears a veil at all ceremonies — too holy for 
mortal eyes, I fancy. Of course the Grand Lamas have 
seen his face, but in the presence of the laity he is 
always veiled. I attended what might be called pon- 
tifical mass. In company with a number of pilgrim 
priests — at Shingtse-lunpo for the Feast of the Sacred 
Dance — I was conducted through a veritable labyrinth 
in the monastery and to a huge cathedral-like place. 
Sakya-muni, in yellow robes and with a golden veil over 
his face, sat on a throne at one end. Many cardinals 
and high officials were there, including the Great Magi- 
cian of Shingtse-lunpo. After the ceremony the Living 
Buddha murmured something about l Om, Ah, Hum’ and 
blessed a lot of red scarves, or katags as they ’re called, 
and distributed them among the pilgrim priests. Then 
we left.” 

In the pause that followed Trent inserted: 

“What of the jewels?” 

Another shrug from Kerth. “If they ’re in Shingtse- 
lunpo, they are well hidden and their presence isn’t 
widely known.” 


302 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Yet — ” But Trent checked himself. 

“Yet Sarojini Nanjee said they were here,” Kerth 
finished up. “I know it. The fact that I haven’t 
learned anything about them doesn’t mean they aren’t 
here.” 

“And you haven’t seen Sarojini?” 

“If I did, it was without my knowledge.” 

‘ ‘ Or — Chavigny ? ’ 9 

Kerth laughed quietly. “If I did n’t know he existed, 
I ’d believe him a myth. No, I have n’t seen Chavigny, 
nor heard of him, for that matter, since I entered the 
city. But that ’s not queer, for if he were here he 
wouldn’t advertise the fact.” 

Trent motioned toward the lamasery. “Do you 
suppose he had a hand in the jewel affair?” 

“Who? Sakya-muni? If not, why were the gems 
brought to Shingtse-lunpo ? And remember: a Grand 
Lama sent Da-yak to Myitkyina.” 

“But — ” 

“I agree with you,” Kerth cut in, anticipating him. 
“It is preposterous. It ’s evident that Chavigny has 
the alliance of the lamas, but how did he get it? I 
haven’t told you the strongest link in that chain yet. 
You ’ll recall that a Grand Lama from a Tibetan monas- 
tery emulated the example of the Tashi Lama and made 
a pilgrimage to the Sacred Bo-tree at Gaya just about 
the time the gems were stolen ? ’ ’ 

Trent’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. 

“Precisely,” continued Kerth, reading the other’s 
thoughts. “I believe the lamas who pilgrimaged to 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


303 


Buddh-Gaya carried the jewels out of India. I have 
foundation for this theory, too. Since my arrival here 
I ’ve learned that a number of the monks who went on 
that pilgrimage were from Shingtse-lunpo — and they 
have n ’t returned yet ! ’ ’ 

Trent was subconsciously following a detached idea. 
He remembered that the priests were at Gaya on the 
night Manlove was murdered, and if their purpose was 
that suggested by Kerth, it furnished a reason for Cha- 
vigny being there 

‘ ‘ Nor is that all I know, ’ ’ Kerth resumed. ‘ 1 Caravan- 
loads of rifles have been brought here from Mongolia 
— Russian rifles — also gunpowder and dynamite. 
They ’re stored in the armory under the monastery. 
Has that any significance to you ? . . . . Trent, we may 
yet bring down a brace of birds when we only expected 

to pot one I ’m more than a little concerned with 

Sarojini Nanjee; I can’t adjust her with this business. 
What are her secret strings that give her so much power ? 
What can she expect to do alone? She has a trump 
card up her sleeve, mark my words. She ’s no fool, 
and I ’d feel deucedly better if I were certain she was 
going to play that card for us. ’ ’ 

“She promised,” Trent reminded. 

Kerth smiled wryly, but the smile passed quickly. 

“Captain Manlove?” he queried. “You’ve learned 
nothing ? ’ ’ 

Trent shook his head. The silence after that was 
heavy. Kerth ended it. 

“I can’t stay any longer now. I ’m cultivating the 


304 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


abbot of one of the lesser monasteries, with the view of 
eventually being assigned to a cell in Lhakang-gompa. 
I ’ve a suspicion I’ll find something of interest there, 
if I ever get in. I daresay you ’re scheduled to witness 
the ceremonies to-morrow, so I won’t have an oppor- 
tunity to see you until to-morrow night, but I ’ll return 
then, about this hour.” He extended his lean hand. 
‘‘Here ’s luck to you!” 

“The same,” Trent responded with a smile, gripping 
his hand. “How ’d you get in?” 

Kerth indicated the wall. ‘ ‘ Give me a lift, will you ? ’ ’ 

Trent clasped his hands, and, by stepping into the 
foothold thus formed, Kerth was able to grasp the top 
of the wall and draw himself up. There he sat for a 
moment, looking below on the other side; then, with 
a wave of farewell, he dropped from sight. 

Trent returned to the house, passing the muleteers who 
were gathered about a fire in the quadrangle, and 
climbed to the roof. Dana Charteris was there — but 
asleep. For a space of seconds he stood looking down 
at the slim form. Her head was pillowed upon one 
arm and utter weariness lined the features that were 
revealed in the moonlight — pale, starry features. He 
felt a warm rush of sympathy, a moment when he 
loathed himself for having brought her into danger. 
.... He turned away, moving quietly to the shaft. 

At the top of the ladder he paused. The city lay 
before him, patches of gloom and shadow, beneath the 
dark bulk of the lamasery. To think that there, among 
those huddled buildings, was a key to the riddle — a 


CITY OF THE FALCON 305 

solution that would dispel the nebulous clouds, perhaps 
clear the mystery of Manlove ’s death ! 

A wave of the old bitterness swept up through him; 
swept up and cast his features into a mold of grim 
resolution. 


3 

The next morning Trent told Dana Charteris of his 
talk with Euan Kerth; also, that Kee Meng was to be 
her bodyguard. 

4 ‘But surely I can leave the compound?” she objected. 
“I would like to see the festival to-day — and, oh, it 
would be frightful here, waiting, with nothing to do! 
I ’d worry about you every moment, yet with something 
to distract me .... don’t you see?” 

He considered a long time before he decided. 

“I ’m afraid it wouldn’t be wise. There ’s no ac- 
counting for what might happen, and then . . . He 
made a movement as though to furrow his hair, but in- 
stead passed his hand over his turban. “I ’m sorry, but 
the risk is too great. You won’t go, will you?” 

She promised. 

Shortly before noon Na-ehung, accompanied by his es- 
cort, arrived. The Tibetan superintended the trans- 
formation of Trent from a Hindu merchant to a lama- 
ist dignitary. It was after one o’clock when the Eng- 
lishman, shaved and dressed like Na-chung — orange-yel- 
low robe, mushroom hat and all — mounted a pony in the 
quadrangle, and, with the councillor at his side and a 
file of helmeted soldiers behind, clattered away from the 


306 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


house. As he passed out of the gate he looked back for a 
glimpse of Dana Charteris, but did not see her. A 
vague sense of unrest enclosed him. 

Toward Lhakang-gompa they rode, through swarms 
that pressed eagerly in the direction of the monastery. 
Prayer-flags were festooned from house to house, and 
women sat by the roadside selling dried fruit and sweet- 
meats. 

In the very shadow of the monster building, where the 
rocks fell away from its base, they dismounted. The 
serrated fagade piled itself above them in a series of 
inward-sloping ledges, reaching a shuddersome height 
before it met the helium-like blaze of golden roofs. The 
soldiers remained with the horses, while Na-chung led 
Trent through a gate and a courtyard — the latter a veri- 
table abyss between the main building and outer walls — 
and into a dark corridor that reeked with rancid odors. 

Thus began a journey that carried them through dim 
chambers and black halls; through cloisters heavy with 
incense and faintly lighted rooms where lamas, sitting 
before prayer-wheels, murmured passages from Bud- 
dhist scriptures ; through courts that were cool and sunk 
deep in the shadow of lofty walls ; until, at length, they 
came out into bright sunlight. 

At first the intense glare stung Trent’s eyes, but grad- 
ually he became accustomed to it and saw that they 
had emerged on the other side of the lamasery and were 
upon a gallery overlooking a huge amphitheater. He 
hazarded a guess that it measured about half a mile 
around. An incline led down from the gallery, between 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


307 


rows of seats and stalls, and along this slanting aisle and 
into a box close to the immense center court Na-chung 
conducted him. There, seated on cushions beside the 
councillor, he had an opportunity fully to absorb the be- 
wildering spectacle. 

Tier after tier of stalls and terraced seats were packed 
against the retaining walls. Marquees of striped silk, 
flying maroon and flame-colored flags, had been erected 
around the edge of the arena. In the far end stood a 
gilded, silk-draped proscenium, and raised upon it, 
under a gold-fringed canopy, was a dais. On either side 
of the platform, herded together and kept within their 
boundaries by guards armed with halberds, were hun- 
dreds of lamas — patches of cinnabar-red. At the left 
of the arena, starkly silhouetted upon the walls, was a 
line of stakes; their purpose puzzled Trent. Every 
available space, except the vast center-court and the 
proscenium, was crowded with richly dressed onlook- 
ers. There were Tibetan dukes and duchesses, the tur- 
quoise-studied aureoles of the latter gleaming like blue 
fire; soldiers and government dignitaries; high lamas 
wearing saffron vestments, and novices in red togas; 
pilgrims from Ladak, Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan, Kham 
and Mongolia ; men and women garbed in silks and sat- 
ins and decked with jewels. The many-hued robes and 
the colored banners and standards — gold, cerise, ocher, 
lavender-blue and neutral-tint predominating — were 
like vivid splashes on a giant palette. 

The box where Trent and Na-chung sat was one of a 
row that was occupied by men in the orange-yellow robes 


308 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


and mushroom hats of the Higher Council. Many of 
these bronze-faced dignitaries were accompanied by wo- 
men in maroon garments and silver coral-adorned au- 
reoles. Inquisitive. eyes were turned toward Trent and 
Na-ehung, and the latter bowed and smiled. 

“Yonder/’ explained the Tibetan, indicating a long 
carpet of imperial yellow that dazzled from a flight of 
stone steps at one side of the arena to the proscenium in 
the remote end, * 4 is where His Holiness will walk. And 
that” — inclining his head toward a nearby stall where 
a prelate in claret-colored garments sat in the midst of 
shaven-pated satellites — “is the Great Magician. It is 
rumored that he and His Holiness have — er — had some 
misunderstanding. ’ 9 

Thus he gossiped while Trent, searching the ranks of 
the laity below for a familiar face and aware of some- 
thing imminent and compelling in the subdued buzzing 
of many voices, listened only half attentively. 

Without warning a trumpet gave voice to a blast. It 
seemed to inject a sudden thrill into the atmosphere. 
Trent felt his muscles grow tense, and involuntarily his 
eyes sought the broad stone stairway. 

At the top yak-hair curtains parted for a moment 
and a group of heralds bearing long copper horns filed 
out. Came another blast, monstrously loud. A shout 
rose from the multitude; died. Trent heard a faint, 
minor chant — coming from behind the yak-hair curtains, 
he imagined. When this intoning ceased, trumpets 
blared again; the curtains at the stairhead parted. 

Hushed expectancy shut down like a tangible weight. 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


309 


The rapid play of sunlight on lances and bare blades, on 
burnished helmets and golden accoutrements, seemed a 
visible manifestation of the feverish intensity that 
charged the throng. The majority were standing with 
bowed heads; some had prostrated themselves. Antici- 
pation transfigured every face. 

Then the head of the pontifical procession came into 
view. 

Leading were the lictors, with lamaic emblems; then 
acolytes with golden censers and chalices. They moved 
slowly down the steps and along the yellow carpet. 
Following them strode the secular lords and cardinals — 
bronze-faced prelates in rich, deep-yellow robes and yel- 
low mitres. Laymen marched at their heels, carrying 
silken cushions. 

And toward the rear, beneath a golden state-umbrella, 
attended by Grand Lamas of the Gelugpa, walked the 
reincarnation of Gaudama Siddartha, His Holiness Lob- 
sang Yshe Naksang Sakya-muni, the Yellow Pope of 
Tibet. He bore the insignia of his pontifical rank in one 
hand, in the other a rosary. A mitre was set upon his 
head. From beneath this peaked hat fell a golden veil 
that shimmered in the sunlight and blended with the yel- 
low-gold pallium and wide stole that hung from his 
shoulders. 

The living deity moved slowly over the yellow carpet ; 
mounted the proscenium ; sank cross-legged, hands 
folded, like a Buddha, upon the dais. 

Banners and standards were lifted in salute above 
the countless faces that blurred against the terraced 


310 


CAKAVANS BY NIGHT 


seats. A detachment of soldiers in lavender-blue uni- 
forms and brazen helmets clattered out of a door in the 
arena and formed a line in front of the gilded proscen- 
ium. Flash of sunlight on helmets and lifted lances; 
gleam of wrought gold and brazen accoutrements; a 
rippling play of gold. Then horses were wheeled, and 
the Tibetan cavalry trotted out of the arena. 

Sakya-muni removed his mitre. Which proved a sig- 
nal for the ceremonies to begin. 

A clarion blare announced a new group of lamas — 
priests wearing white robes and hideous masks, repre- 
senting mythological demons. They paid obeisance to 
the supreme pontiff and gathered at one side of the 
proscenium. After them came other lamas, in golden 
harness and mantles the flame hue of nasturtiums. 

‘ ‘ They are the ancient warriors, ’ ’ explained Na-chung 
to Trent. “And those” — waving his hand toward an- 
other group that was debouching from a gateway below 
the tiered seats — “are the contestants in the wrestling 
matches. ’ ’ 

The sinewy Tibetan gladiators saluted Sakya-muni. 
They wore only pelts of snow-leopards girded about 
their hips. Their skin, between knees and throat, was 
surprisingly fair. The wrestling tourney lasted for 
over two hours. Na-chung explained every detail to 
Trent who, toward the end of the lengthy show of 
physical skill, was growing weary of it. Too, his eyes 
ached from looking so long and steadily at the sunlit 
expanse. 

When the wrestlers left the arena, hidden drums rum- 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


311 


bled — throbbed out a tuneless miserere. Cymbals 
clashed metallically. A discordant blast of the trum- 
pets whipped the air and a lama wearing a frightful 
mask with yak-horns upon it and tiger-skins flapping 
over his yellow robes moved toward the proscenium. 
He held a skull-bowl above him. Suddenly he paused 
and dashed its contents to the flagging, where it spread 
in an ugly crimson pool. Another burst of trumpets 
accompanied this. 

“It is the Dance of the Gods,” Na-chung told Trent. 

A faint light showed itself in the councillor’s eyes. 
Trent saw the same glow in the eyes of those around 
him — a glimmer of fanatical zeal. 

The white-robed lamas danced into the center of 
the arena ; whirled about, making strange signs ; swayed 
to the monotonous boom-booming of the drums. The 
priests garbed as ancient warriors joined in, their nas- 
turtium-hued mantles and golden harness aquiver like 
sinuous flames. As the dance continued, pilgrims fre- 
quently leaped up and prostrated themselves, intoxi- 
cated with a mystical vintage. Even Trent was not 
immune to infection. The drums throbbed against his 
heart and temples; throbbed and throbbed, until they 
seemed the pulse of a dull delirium. 

The Dance of the Gods was interminably long and, 
after a while, lost its hypnotic power over Trent. The 
sun, a globe of angry red, was rapidly spinning into the 
west and a blood-shot sky flamed above the arena when 
the evil spirits were exorcized — for that, Na-ehung ex- 
plained, was the story told by the performance — and the 


312 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


dancers melted into the throngs of priests on either side 
of the proscenium. 

“Now comes the Archery Contest/ ’ announced the 
councillor, a repressed gleam in his eyes. “It is the 
great event of the celebration — a demonstration of jus- 
tice. ’ ’ 

Even as he spoke, trumpets were blown. From be- 
hind the yak-hair curtains emerged a small body of 
men in golden chain-mail and helmets. (The armor 
and headgear interested Trent. Here were relics of the 
ancients — of Srong-tsan-gambo and the early Tibetan 
kings.) The rays of the sun reflected a dull radiance 
in the meshes of their armor ; sent needles of fire weav- 
ing along the contours of gilded bows and quivers ; glit- 
tered in blood-red and gold upon polished helmets. 

“They belong to the guard of his Transparency the 
Governor/ ’ said Na-chung. 

The archers lifted their bows in salute to the Living 
God. A visible ripple of admiration passed around the 
amphitheater. Heads were strained forward, eyes fo- 
cussed upon the mailed bowmen, who aligned themselves 
on the right side of the arena — facing the black stakes. 
There was something pregnant and potent in their move- 
ments 

From a gateway opposite the archers rode a double 
file of soldiers. Between them walked a line of men in 
dun-colored garments. As Trent saw that they were 
manacled a frightful suspicion fastened upon him. 
With dreadful suddenness the purpose of the stakes be- 
came apparent 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


313 


The bowmen stood motionless; only their chain-mail 
seemed possessed of life. It glittered and crawled with 
scaly scintillations, like the corrugated armor of a 
dragon. 

At the stakes the soldiers drew up ; dismounted. One 
of the manacled men screamed and gibbered as he was 
being bound — sounds that were like nothing human. 
Trent turned to Na-chung. The Englishman’s face 
showed no emotion, but his jaw was thrust forward at 
an ugly angle. 

The councillor smiled grimly. 

“Their tongues are slit,” he informed Trent; then, 
with a wave of his hand, he added: “Political offen- 
ders.” 

Trent, his features cast in a mold that for sheer in- 
scrutability would have rivalled that of the stoniest 
idol, turned away — and an instant later he felt a warm 
breath upon his ear and heard Na-chung ’s suave voice. 

‘ 1 Thus the Governor punishes treason. Look ! There 
is his Transparency now.” 

A vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair, borne on the 
shoulders of four guards, moved through a gateway 
close to the archers; was placed on the ground at the 
end of their stances. The official, visible only as a crim- 
son blot in the interior, did not rise, but watched the 
proceedings from his seat. 

Trent’s eyes were drawn back irresistibly to the stakes 
where the prisoners were being bound, manacled wrists 
above their heads. Silence wrapped the amphitheater 
about, like tight swathing. To the Englishman, there 


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was a terrible significance in the nndernote of red that 
the late afternoon introduced into the scene: the five 
bars of the blood-red sunset quivering above the arena 
and reflecting upon the gilded proscenium, the deep 
magenta of the lamas’ robes, and the red-gold glint on 
harness and naked metal. 

At a signal the archers advanced several paces. Bow- 
strings were tested; arrows drawn from quivers. 

A shudder, half of awful ecstasy, half of horror, 
swept the amphitheater, like wind rippling the surface 
of the sea. 

Trent, a nausea spreading from the pit of his 
stomach to his throat, saw Sakya-muni lift one hand. 
His lips pressed into a line; otherwise, his immobility 
was unbroken. 

Another shiver swept the amphitheater. 

Sakya-muni ’s hand dropped. 

The archers flexed their bows ; clapped their heels to- 
gether; stood erect. Gutstrings snapped rigid between 

their nocks The whizz-zz-zz of the arrows seemed 

to unleash the tension. A hysterical cheer wavered up 
from the multitude. The manacled figures sagged, 
hung, drenched in the flaming red of the sunset. 

Trent relaxed — but the nausea remained, a dull hor- 
ror that he could almost taste. 

Sakya-muni rose, as did the multitude. A low chant 
began, a weird, droning incantation. The mailed execu- 
tioners marched out of the arena, followed by the Gov- 
ernor’s vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair. The masked 
lamas and those in harness and flame-colored man- 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


315 


ties filed toward the stairway. Lictors and acolytes de- 
scended from the proscenium; the secular lords and 
cardinals; the Living Buddha and his attendant Grand 

Lamas Slowly they traversed the yellow carpet, 

slowly they mounted the steps and vanished behind the 
yak-hair curtains. The red monks herded together on 
either side of the platform formed human rivulets 
that surged into the arena. The onlookers left their 
seats. 

The Festival of the Gods was over. 

4 

Trent and Na-chung moved up the incline, sifting 
through the swarm. On the gallery, at the portal of the 
monastery, Trent looked back. Dusk was creeping into 
the inflamed sky and gray motes subdued the crimson 
reflection. Over the heads of the people he saw the 
arena — saw the sagging figures starkly outlined upon the 
white wall. 

Then he plunged into the doorway, behind Na-chung. 

As they re-traveled the labyrinth of corridors and 
courts, there hung before Trent a picture of the arena 
as he last looked upon it — a grim etching. He had seen 
men slaughtered in recognized warfare, had seen prison- 
ers executed, but this — There was something mon- 
strous, something inexplicably hideous, about it. His 
failure to understand the uncanny impression only 
sharpened the horror. 4 ‘Their tongues are slit — ” Na- 
chung ’s words were written as with steel upon his brain. 
When men’s tongues are slit it is obviously for the pur- 


316 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


pose of preventing speech. What did those wretches 
know? 4 ‘Political offenders/’ the councillor had said 
.... yet ... . 

So ran his thoughts as they emerged at length on the 
other side of Lhakang-gompa. Night was swiftly gather- 
ing, and a familiar vermiliondacquered sedan-chair 
swam in the dusk of the courtyard near the gate. As 
Trent drew nearer, a figure in long robes stepped out. 
He saw the pale blot of the Governor’s face. 

“Ah! It is his Transparency!” exclaimed Na-chung. 
“He is waiting for us.” 

The Governor stood motionless by his sedan-chair. 
Not until they were within three yards of him did he 
stir — and as he took a step, Trent experienced a shock 
that was not unlike a physical blow. But his poise did 
not desert him; he only drew a swift breath, which he 
doubted if the Governor heard, and a slight smile settled 
over his features — as though he had known from the 
very first that it was Hsien Sgam who rode in the ver- 
milion-lacquered sedan-chair and this meeting was no 
more than expected, even anticipated. 

“Hsien Sgam,” he said, still smiling. 

The Mongol — he, too, was smiling — bowed. His slen- 
der, almost feminine hands gleamed sharply-cut in the 
twilight. 

“By that name you first knew me,” he replied in the 
quiet, reserved voice that Trent remembered so well — a 
voice that chose each word with extreme care. “So, 
my friend, continue to know me as that.” 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


317 


He wore a dark silk-brocade garment ; it looked crim- 
son in the dusk. The facings were goldcloth, shining 
dully, and a hat with upcurling brim surmounted his 
pale bronze features. One of those curious, vagrant 
questions came to Trent as he looked at the Mongol. 
Was this the flannel-clad fellow-passenger of the Man- 
chester, he who had talked of revolutions, of Western 
vices and morals? .... Queer .... There was little 
of incongruity about him now, here in his native setting ; 
only the eyes and face — eyes of Lucifer and face of 
Buddha, Anomalous, unexplainable, almost — Trent 
hesitated at using the term, even in thought; yet why 
not? — almost monstrous. 

“I am pleased to welcome you to Shingtse-lunpo, ’ ’ 
Hsein Sgam announced. “I regretted very much” — 
here the sensitive lip>s quivered in a quick smile — 
“that you became impatient and left the joss-house, 
that night in Rangoon. It was unpardonable of me to 
have kept you waiting, yet unavoidable. I hope to do 
here what I intended to do there — discuss certain mat- 
ters with which you are only partly acquainted.” Then, 
after a pause, “I trust you find your quarters com- 
fortable?” 

Trent answered with a single word. 

“I am delighted to have you accept my hospitality,” 
resumed the Mongol. ‘ 1 There are many — er — things we 
must discuss, but I would indeed be rude if I suggested 
that we take up those matters so soon after your fati- 
guing journey. Perhaps you will do me the honor of 


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CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


calling at my residence to-morrow night? .... I shall 
send my estimable chief councillor, Na-chung, to — er — 
fetch you, as they say in your country.” 

And he did a most Western thing; he extended his 
hand. Trent accepted it, because he had no choice. 
For some inexplicable reason he felt a sudden loathing. 
In that instant the Mongol seemed, mentally, as mis- 
shapen as his limb. It was like a swift glimpse behind 
the serene Buddha-like face, and his touch was a tan- 
gible reminder that Hsien Sgam — Hsien Sgam of the 
slender hands and sensitive lips — was responsible for 
the slaughter that Trent only a short while before had 
witnessed. “Thus the Governor punishes treason,” 
Na-chung had said. 

The Mongol spoke, almost with clairvoyance. 

“Doubtless you found in the ceremonies this after- 
noon a — er — slight unpleasantness; that is, it would be 
unpleasant to an Anglo-Saxon.” He smiled. “Public 
executions, we of Shingtse-lunpo find, are necessary to 
bring forcibly to the people the supremacy of the State, 
and” — the baffling eyes were more inscrutable than ever 
— “as an example to those who contemplate — shall I 
say, indiscretions?” 

Still smiling, Hsien Sgam limped to the sedan-chair. 
He entered, without another glance at Trent, and was 
borne away on the shoulders of the guards. 

“Come,” said Na-chung. “My men are waiting out- 
side the gate.” 

Back through the narrow, crowded streets they rode 
— streets that were as chaotic as Trent’s brain. The 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


319 


discovery that Hsien Sgam was Governor of Shingtse- 
lunpo (and, quite evidently, one of the Order of the 
Falcon) swung his main danger from Sarojini Nanjee 
to the Mongol — or rather, left him between the two 
perils. Of the pair, he imagined he could expect more 
mercy from the woman. If she and the Mongol were 
in league, that doubly jeopardized his position; but if 
they were opposing forces. . . . Well, frequently the 
third party profits by the rivalry of the other two. 
What puzzled him most was why Hsien Sgam had tried 
to kill him in Rangoon, if he believed him Tavernake, 
the jeweler. And Trent did not doubt for an instant, 
now, that the Mongol was the instigator of the bullet 
that Kerth had intercepted. A warm thrill of assurance 
ran through him at thought of Kerth. He had one ally. 
More, of course, counting the muleteers and Dana Char- 
ters ; but the girl was more of a liability than an asset, 
a thorn in his fragile security. If she were only some- 
where else But she was not. And her presence 

troubled him. 

Hsien Sgam, the Governor of Shingtse-lunpo. He 
smiled inwardly. What was the Mongol’s part in the 
jewel mystery? He suspected that Hsien Sgam’s talk 
of a Mongol revolution was a sheath in which his true 
motive in luring him to the joss-house in Rangoon lay 
hidden. Was — ? 

‘‘By George!” he muttered, aloud. 

Glancing toward Na-chung, he saw the councillor’s 
questioning look and made an inconsequential remark, 
while he asked himself: 


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CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Is Hsien Sgam .... but no .... yet ... . well, 
why not? ... . But what of Chavigny, if he isn’t the 
Falcon ? 

They reached Trent’s dwelling-place then. Na-chung 
halted at the gate, informing the Englishman that he 
would leave a guard. 

“As your guide,” he explained suavely. “You will 
wish to go beyond your quadrangle, and whereas your 
garments are a passport anywhere in the city, it is not 
wise for you to venture out alone — yet.” He smiled. 
“You see, the fact that you do not speak our language, 
and that my people are unfortunately suspicious, might 
prove .... you understand? Therefore, I have in- 
structed the guard to accompany you when you leave 
the house, as a purely precautionary measure. His 
Transparency the Governor also wishes me to present 
to you the pony which you are riding, as a slight token 
of his esteem.” 

Trent thanked him and Na-chung clattered away, 
followed by his retinue of soldiers. 

As one of the muleteers took Trent’s mount, he looked 
about the quadrangle for Dana Charteris. 

“Where is my brother?” he asked. 

The muleteer muttered a few unintelligible words. 

“Where?” Trent repeated. 

The Oriental looked as though he expected Trent to 
strike him, as he answered: 

“He left the house — this morning — soon after you 
did, Tajen.” 

“Alone?” He snapped out the question. 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


321 


“No, Tajen; Kee Meng went, too.” 

“Where? Do you know?” — this with a frown. 

“To the festival, Tajen.” 

Trent stood motionless. The frown disappeared as 
he remembered that he had ridden from the amphi- 
theatre; they, being on foot, would be later in coming. 

“Send Kee Meng to me as soon as he returns,” he 
rapped, and entered the dwelling. 

When a half-hour had gone by and Dana Charteris 
and Kee Meng had not come, the frown returned to 
Trent’s forehead; returned and stayed; and deepened 
into furrows when another thirty minutes did not bring 
them. He went up on the roof to smoke and to be 
alone ; and he paced the stones, drawing nervously upon 
the amber stem and confessing to himself that he was 
alarmed. 

His heart beat a swift symphony of anticipation when 
he heard the gate open. Without looking over the roof- 
wall, he hurried below. As he stepped into the quad- 
rangle and beheld the limp figure that was being sup- 
ported by two muleteers, fear sank its talons into him. 

The sound of his footsteps brought the limp figure 
up with a visible effort. He thrust back the two men ; 
took a step; dropped on his knees before Trent. 

“ Tajen!” whispered Kee Meng. “ Tajen, I swear 
by Allah that — ” 

Trent gripped his shoulders. His right hand en- 
countered moisture ; he saw a stain. 

“What is it?” he demanded, his muscles bound in 
a rigor of dreadful apprehension. 


322 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“Tajen, as we were coming from that — that devil 
dance, the brother and I. . . .We were in a street no 
wider than this” — painfully he lifted his hands in il- 
lustration — “and they jumped on us from behind — ” 

“Who did?” 

“I do not know, Tajen ; but I think they were lamas. 
They struck me from behind — and as I lay there I heard 
the brother scream — and I. . . . They stabbed me, 
Tajen. I saw black for a long while, oh, a very long 
while ! When I woke up I was lying in the gutter. The 
brother — he was gone! I was hurt; but I knew you 
would kill me if I returned without looking — so I hunted 
— until I spilled my blood over the city and had none 
left to keep me alive. Then I came — came back ! ’ ’ 

He sank in a huddle at Trent’s feet. 

“Kill me, Tajen,” he moaned. “The brother — how 
could I refuse when he told me to go with him to. . . . ? 
But kill me — I am not worth the — ” His voice broke; 
he was still. 

Trent bent swiftly. After a moment he stood erect. 

‘ ‘ Carry him inside, ’ ’ he directed the muleteers. * ‘ It 
is n ’t a bad wound ; he ’s weak from loss of blood. ’ ’ 

The two yellow men stooped and picked up the un- 
conscious Kee Meng. As Trent entered the house be- 
hind them the putrid odor of butter-lamps assaulted 
him, sickened him. The blow had come with a maiming 
force. He felt suddenly crippled. 

5 

When Trent had dressed Kee Meng’s wound he re- 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


323 


turned to the roof, to his pipe and the stars. The spot 
seemed a lone haven of cleanliness, raised above the 
malefic atmosphere of the city To think — to de- 

cide what to do. He told himself that over and over 
as he paced the stones. His hands, figuratively, were 
tied. There was no one to whom he dared appeal — 
none save Kerth, and the two of them might search for 
days in the labyrinth of the city without even finding 
a clue. Meanwhile, Dana Charteris was in danger — a 
danger that was more frightful because of the indefinite- 
ness of its character. There was but one explanation 
for her disappearance : either Sarojini Nanjee or Hsien 
Sgam had discovered her sex and had taken steps to place 
her where she was likely to cause the least trouble .... 
and where she might prove a weapon. 

He smoked on, pipe clamped between his teeth, strid- 
ing the length of the housetop. The stars saw what few 
men had ever seen — Arnold Trent stripped of his mask, 
his citadel of impassivity beaten down. A great hollow 
infinity seemed to press upon him and quench the very 
breath from his lips. He came to understand a new 
emotion — the agony of separation. The scales of un- 
reason weighed values, and an alien recklessness 
urged him to forsake the sovereign motive for his pres- 
ence in Shingtse-lunpo and with one mighty effort break 
the bonds that held him to a discreet course. Did not 
duty toward flesh transcend duty toward the inanimate ? 
. . . . Thus the lover’s litany — a beautiful heresy. 

But all this ache, longing, and unreason only carried 
him about in a circle ; and from these purposeless revolu- 


324 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


tions the memory of her, a continuous glow in the dim- 
ness, led him into patience, to a mastery of himself. 
There were lines in his face — the mellow writing of 
anguish. It was as though he had partaken of the 
eucharist of suffering and from the bitter sacrament had 
come quiescence. 

With the first easing of the tension came a plan. It 
broke upon him suddenly. If Sarojini Nanjee had ab- 
ducted Dana Charteris, he could only rely upon his wits 
to free her ; but if it was Hsien Sgam — His plan was a 
counter-blow at the Mongol in the event he was respon- 
sible for the girl’s disappearance. It was a bold play, 
and if he failed .... 

As he heard a soft footfall, he swung about toward 
the shaft. A figure emerged — one of the muleteers. 

“Tajen, a lama is below.” he announced. ‘‘He 
came over the garden wall. He says he would speak 
with you.” 

“Send him up here,” directed Trent. 

Several minutes later a shaven skull projected itself 
above the black opening in the roof, and Kerth, in his 
lama robes, stepped out. There was something reas- 
suring in the sight of him. A white man ! That alone 
was a moral fire in which to forge his resolution. 

Kerth listened in silence while Trent recounted what 
had happened and told of his plan. 

“I know of a place to conceal him,” Kerth announced, 
when Trent had concluded. “It ’s an old ruin at the 
other end of the city ; and there ’s a vault, with a door 
that will lock. I stayed there the first few days I was 


CITY OF THE FALCON 


325 


in Shingtse-lunpo. We ’ll have to strike now — to-night. 
To-morrow morning I enter Lhakang-gompa, to serve in 
one of the cells.” He smiled his satanic smile. “It ’s 
my one chance to get at the source of things in the 
monastery. ’ ’ 

They descended from the roof — and a few minutes 
afterward, when Kerth climbed over the garden wall, he 
was accompanied by two of Trent’s muleteers. Trent 
stood in the shadow of the willow-thorn until their foot- 
steps ceased, then returned to the house to wait. 

He kept vigil in the quadrangle for more than an 
hour, restless, impatient. At the first sounds in the 
willow-grove, he hurried to the garden and met the two 
caravan-men. 

“All is well, Tajen,” reported one of the Orientals. 
“The lama bade me tell you everything happened as 
planned and that the councillor Na-chung is hidden in 
the vault.” 

“The lama sent no other message?” 

“He said he wishes you the peace of Gaudama 
Siddartha.” 

Good old Kerth, Trent thought warmly. That was 
his message of comfort. 

“You have done well,” he commended the muleteers. 
“To-morrow you will each receive a gift.” 

It was near midnight, and the stars had fled before 
black clouds and a drizzling rain, when Trent forced 
himself to lie down. Almost the instant he relaxed 
unconsciousness carried him into its dim cathedral, and 
he drank of the sleep that deadens even the pains of the 
dying. 


CHAPTER XII 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 

F ROM the very midst of slumber Trent was shot into 
consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself 
submerged in darkness, and to feel another presence in 
the black flood. His hand went involuntarily to the 
revolver that he kept always within reach, and as he 
lifted himself upon his elbow, one hand gripping the 
weapon, he saw a body silhouetted upon the grayish 
rectangle of a window. 

“Tajeri!” whispered a voice that he recognized as that 
of one of the muleteers. 4 ‘It is Hsiao. There is a man 
below. ... He told me to be quiet and not arouse the 
guard .... He brought this for you.” 

A folded sheet of paper was thrust into Trent’s hand. 
The scent of sandalwood caressed his nostrils and cleared 
his brain of the last tangle of drowsiness. He rose and 
sought his electric torch, which was in his kit-bag. 

Snapping on the light, he read the note It was 

brief; merely instructed him to follow the bearer and 

was signed by Sarojini Nanjee A glance at his 

watch showed him it was after two o’clock. 

“Where is he? In the quadrangle?” Trent queried. 
“Yes, Tajen.” 

“I ’ll be there directly.” 

* 326 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 327 

Trent strapped his revolver to his thigh; procured a 
certain object from his pack; went below. 

A thin, misting rain was falling, and the wind swept 
down in cold legions from the snows of the North. It 
was a night to kindle icy flame in the marrow. Gray 
gloom lay like a ghoulish lacquer upon the world, and 
dogs were howling somewhere in the city. 

Sarojini’s messenger was a thin-featured Tibetan with 
long hair. He extended a dark bundle to Trent and 
muttered something in his own tongue. 

“He says for you to put those on, Tajen,” translated 
the muleteer. 

Unrolling the bundle, Trent saw a long toga and a 
pair of heavy Tibetan boots. The latter he pulled on 
with some difficulty, then threw the toga about his 
shoulders. 

The long-haired messenger touched his arm, motion- 
ing toward the garden. Hsiao, the muleteer, accom- 
panied them to the wall, where he lent Trent his aid in 
reaching the top. Outside, the Englishman found him- 
self in a narrow lane that opened upon the street. 

Through ghostly highways they moved. Now and 
then a dog snarled viciously and slunk away as the 
Tibetan kicked at him. They traveled along constricted 
streets, some graduated into steps, and past silent, white- 
washed houses that loomed spectral in the night. 
These ramifications led them to a stone bridge and a 
roadway between tall bamboo and the black blur of 
trees. Trent could see the city’s walls now, beyond 
rounded clumps of bushes. From this clustered vegeta- 


328 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


tion rose a large temple-like edifice whose dome shone 
dully through the drizzle. 

A lane branched off from the main road and took 
them to the gates of the temple-like building. First, 
a courtyard, then an imposing doorway. Within, it was 
damp and cold. Butter-lamps made a feeble attempt to 
disperse rebellious shadows. Monster shapes, which 
Trent perceived to be idols, glowed sullenly in the semi- 
dark. 

A hall with red-lacquered pillars led to a massive 
portal that was opened by a brass ring. It swung back, 
to release the odor of incense and rancid butter and to 
admit Trent and the Tibetan into a vast space that 
evidently was a temple. Butter-lamps hiccoughed and 
threw their reflections upon brazen images and old 
armor. In the remote end a dull mass of gold kindled 
in the temple-dusk, a form that took on the shape of a 
huge idol — and from beneath the shining god came a 
figure of familiar proportions. 

“ Greetings, man of many faces !” said Sarojini Nan- 
jee in her sweet voice, a voice that rang like the notes 
of a gong in the ponderous silence of the temple. 

Trent glimpsed behind her a man in claret-colored 
vestments. The face was strongly reminiscent of one 
he had recently seen, and after a few seconds recogni- 
tion flashed into him. He was the one whom Na-chung 
had pointed out in the amphitheater as the Great Magi- 
cian of Shingtse-lunpo. The woman, seeing Trent ’s look 
and misunderstanding it, announced: 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


329 


“He knows only Tibetan and Hindustani; that is why 
I speak English.’ * Then she added, “He is the third 
most powerful man in Shingtse-lunpo.” 

Trent casually took in Sarojini Nanjee’s manner of 
dress — casually, because he did not wish to appear par- 
ticularly interested. She wore a long maroon garment 
such as Tibetan women wear; only the lines were not 
bulky, but adapted themselves to the purpose of reveal- 
ing the contours of her figure. Her skin was darkened 
by a stain — skin that was quite unlike that of the women 
of Shingtse-lunpo in that it was smooth and without a 
coat of dust and grease. A silver aureole rose behind 
her black hair, which was parted after the Tibetan 
fashion. A flame, as of black opals, danced and flashed 
in her eyes as she smiled at him. 

“I have not sent for you before,” she told him, “be- 
cause it would have been indiscreet. Too, we could have 
done nothing until now. I did not know of your ar- 
rival until many hours after you reached the city. 
I—” 

“You expected my muleteers to report my presence,” 
he put in, smiling. 

She smiled, too, although he could see she was not 
pleased. 

“Yes. Where are they?” 

“I didn’t fancy being spied upon night and day,” 
he replied, “so I left them at Tali-fang.” 

‘ ‘ Do you realize that was disobeying me?” 

“You didn’t forbid changing servants.” After a 


330 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


pause lie went on, “Yefc my precautions were useless, 
for I daresay by now you know everything that hap- 
pened since I left Tali-fang.” 

She looked at him quizzically. (And he did not know 
whether the expression was genuine or not.) 

“What do you mean?” 

“One of my men failed to put in his appearance 
last night. I naturally surmised” — this rather drily — 
“that you detained him to find out what he knew.” 

He was watching her closely, and again that quiz- 
zical expression clouded her eyes. After a moment she 
smiled queerly. 

“You accuse me of crude tactics,” she said; then 
switched off with : ‘ ‘ But tell me, what have you learned 

since your arrival?” 

He answered discreetly. “I attended the festival 
to-day. ’ ’ 

She nodded. “I saw you. I was in the Governor’s 
stall. Because of his vigilance I dared not communicate 
with you before this. He watches me as a hawk watches 
its prey.” (Trent wondered if the word “hawk” had 
any significance.) “But while the bird sleeps, the co- 
bra goes about its business You have not yet 

told me what you learned.” 

After some deliberation he said: 

“I know of Sakya-muni; and I know that monks from 
Shingtse-lunpo accompanied the abbot who pilgrimaged 
to Gaya.” 

A second time she nodded. “Do you know what oc- 
curred at Gaya?” 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


331 


Trent ’s heart was beating swiftly as he countered : 

“You should know; you were there at the time.” 

And his heart beat swifter as she whipped back: 

‘ ‘ Who told you that ? ’ ’ 

Trent was thrusting boldly. Pie meant to beat down 
all guards, to win or lose. The suspense, the groping 
in the dark, was consuming his nerve-tissues. 

“Hsien Sgam,” he lied. 

A typhoon of rage flashed across her beautiful face. 
It spent itself quickly. She opened her lips; closed 
them; and after a space said quite calmly: 

“Why did Hsien Sgam tell you that?” 

Trent shrugged. 1 i How do I know ? ’ ’ 

She gestured impatiently. “What question did you 
ask that caused him to tell that?” 

Having gone so far, Trent ventured a step further. 

‘ ‘ Captain Manlove, who shared my bungalow at Gaya, 
was murdered the night the monks were there. I asked 
him if he could explain it. ’ ’ 

A queer, cold expression settled upon Sarojini Nan- 
jee’s face. Only her eyes were warm: they burned like 
melted opals. She smiled — a rather terrible smile. 

“I had not heard that before, that your friend was 
murdered,” she announced. “Why did not you tell 
me?” 

“Why should I?” 

Her eyes searched his face; encountered that barrier 
of impassivity. 

“You say you suspected the monks?” 

“Not until I reached Shingtse-lunpo. ” 


332 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


A pause before she pursued : 

“But why, even then, did you suspect them? What 
motive — ” 

“I ’m at loss for a motive,” he cut in quietly. “I 
don’t know what to think, for, you see, I found this” 
— he drew from under his robe a glittering object — 
“in his, in Captain Manlove’s, hand.” 

He opened the silver-chased pendant and extended it 
to her. She glanced at the name graven within ; looked 
up at him. The lids sank over her eyes — to cover sur- 
prise, he imagined. 

“But why,” she queried, “did not you tell me of 
this before?” 

“Because if you lied to me once, I thought it likely 
you ’d lie a second time. You swore that Chavigny had 
nothing to do with the Order — yet — ” He motioned 
toward the piece of coral. 

Her eyes burned with a steady flame. 

“I spoke the truth!” she declared. “Chavigny has 
nothing to do with the Order, has had nothing to do with 
it since several days before your Captain Manlove was 
murdered. Oh, I know what you think — that I am 
lying now! But, even as I spoke the truth then, I 
speak it now ! Chavigny is dead — was dead before your 
friend was killed!” 

Trent took the pendant, avoiding her eyes. It was 
one of his idiosyncrasies not to look at a person whom 
he believed lying to him. 

“Chavigny was intrusted with certain work at In- 
dore, ’ ’ she continued, ‘ 1 but he ran amuck ; tried to steal 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


333 


the Pearl Scarf for himself and substituted an imitation. 
A blundering Secret Service agent, who had followed 
Chavigny from Calcutta, interfered. I am not aware 
of the exact circumstances, but this Secret Service agent 
came into possession of the real Pearl Scarf. The Order 
allowed Chavigny to go to Delhi. There the substitute 
was discovered — and Chavigny put out of the way. 
The Secret Service agent who had the real jewels was 
in Delhi, where he had tracked Chavigny. I was in- 
structed to recover the Pearl Scarf, and I sent my ser- 
vant, Chandra Lai, to the hotel where the Government 
agent was staying. He got the pearls and — ” 

“And you took them to Gaya, to the lamas?” Trent 
interposed. 

“Did I say that?” she retorted. “What I did with 
them is no concern of yours — at present. ’ ’ 

“But you were at Gaya?” 

“I refuse to answer that.” 

“But if Chavigny was put out of the way, as you say, 
how do you account for this ? ” he pressed on, extending 
the pendant. 

“How does one account for the sun, the moon, the 
stars?” she returned. “No, I do not know now — but I 
will know ! And you shall avenge the slaying of your 
friend! You shall have blood for blood! I, Sarojini 
Nanjee, promise that! I will learn the truth — even if 
I must go to the Falcon ! ’ ’ 

Trent took that as his cue and asked: 

“Who is the Falcon?” 

She stared at him. ‘ ‘ Then you have not seen him ? ’ ’ 


334 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Trent wanted to smile. Without herself realizing it, 
she had told him the one thing he wished to know. He 
had said that he had talked with Hsien Sgam — and now 
she asked if he had seen the Falcon 

“No,” he replied, “I have not seen him.” 

“You will see him, then,” she said quickly, “at the 
proper time. Minutes are too precious to spend on ex- 
planations now. To-night I shall show you one of the 

secrets of Shingtse-lunpo Come! You must meet 

the Great Magician. 

The high priest of sorcery (whose presence they had 
for the while forgotten) greeted Trent cordially in 
Hindustani, but it was evident that he was troubled — 
though the fact that his lips trembled slightly may have 
been due to the dampness of the temple. 

Sarojini Nanjee threw a robe about her shoulders 
and, motioning to Trent, guided him to one side of the 
large golden image, to a door that the Great Magician 
had opened. Beyond was a courtyard. It was still 
drizzling and low black clouds impended. A gate was 
pushed open by the high priest and they emerged upon a 
path that ended at a gate in the nearby city-walls. If 
there was a guard, he was discreetly out of sight. 

Outside was a low embankment, then the dark waste 
of the morass that girded Shingtse-lunpo. To the west, 
in the thin veil of rain, was a shapeless blur that Trent 
imagined was Amber Bridge. The Great Magic’ian 
shut the gate and led the way down the embankment. 
The ground was not soggy, as Trent expected, and, 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 335 

straining his eyes, he saw the reason. They were follow- 
ing a barely visible road through the rushes. 

Toward the shapeless blur they moved. As they drew 
nearer it became apparent that it was not Amber 
Bridge, but a pile of broken stone — a remnant of the old 
outer-fortifications — in the middle of the swamp-belt. 
When they reached the mass of masonry Trent saw that 
it was a portion of a broken wall, rising above nearly 
obliterated flagstones that formed the floor of what had 
once been a room, or a tunnel, under a mighty rampart — 
a wall that was hollowed and whose roof had fallen in. 
The passage thus formed was not more than three feet 
in width and ran for several yards before it ended in a 
cul-de-sac. 

Into the narrow space between the walls Trent and 
Sarojini Nanjee followed the Great Magician. It was 
damp and smelled of freshly-turned earth. A few feet 
from the entrance the Tibetan paused and grunted a 
word to Sarojini. Instantly a saber of light smote the 
darkness, a ray from a very modern electric torch in the 
woman’s hand. The Great Magician took the light from 
her, flashing it into the cul-de-sac and upon a small stone 
stairway that plunged into grim depths. 

Down into the bowels of the earth it carried them, 
into a rectangular crypt. Blocks of masonry had been 
torn away from one side of the wall and an irregular 
aperture gaped blackly. Trent observed that the stones 
had not been removed recently, for they were wedged in 
mud and grown with fungi. 


336 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Through the rent in the crypt they passed, entering a 
tunnel that bored downward at a gradual incline. The 
torchlight wavered upon damp, ancient walls; upon 
several inches of water in the bottom of the passage. 
Cold, earthy odors fouled the air. Before they had pro- 
ceeded far, loose rocks rattled underfoot, and Trent, 
glancing down, saw that he was treading upon chips and 
small particles of stone. White dust streaked the 
muddy water. This prepared him for the pile of 
shattered rock that appeared suddenly ahead, heaped at 
one side of a crude doorway. All of which attested to 
the fact that the passage had at one time been sealed, 
but very recently opened — and by men who were not 
masons. 

The tunnel continued its gradual downward course for 
what Trent calculated was at least a mile. If he judged 
aright they must be somewhere near the middle of the 
city. Suddenly the subterranean corridor made a series 
of turns, then sloped upward, running straight after 
that and bringing them at length into a crypt similar 
to the one beneath the swamp-ruins. The smell of oil 
hung in the air, and Trent identified it with the iron- 
bound door at one side. He was surprised to see that 
its lock was very modern. (Prom some shop in Gyang- 
tse or Darjeeling — thus he conjectured irrelevantly.) 
The Great Magician fumbled at the formidable portal, 
and, following a grating noise, it swung out soundlessly 
on well-oiled hinges. Yellow light impinged upon the 
darkness of a stairway, on the bottom step of which 
rested a brass lamp. 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


337 


The priest lighted the lamp, and Sarojini Nanjee, slip- 
ping her hand into Trent’s, led the Englishman through 
the door and up the stairway. Looking back, Trent 
saw the Great Magician sink cross-legged upon the 
floor; then the picture was shut out as they climbed 
higher into gloom. Near the top Sarojini halted and 
directed the light upward. It swept a square of stone at 
the very head of the stairs ; the lines where it fitted into 
place were scarcely visible. 

“You will have to lift .the stone,” Sarojini told him, 
stepping aside. 

He mounted the few remaining stairs and stooped in 
the meager space at the top, pressing hands and shoul- 
ders against the square of stone. Warm blood rushed 
into his stained cheeks as he slowly drew erect, lifting 
the stone from place and letting it fall noisily upon the 
floor above. The space into which the rock fitted was 
perhaps three yards around, widening out at the top. 
Trent’s head and shoulders projected from the aperture 
into blackness that was more intense because of the light 
from which he had emerged. 

“Pull yourself up,” directed Sarojini. “Then I will 
give you the light. ’ ’ 

He drew himself out of the stairway with little diffi- 
culty, clambering to his knees on the stone floor above 
and leaning back to receive the pocket-lamp. As he 
lifted the light he gained an impression of vastness and 
gloom and many indistinguishable objects. Placing the 
torch on the floor beside him, he grasped Sarojini ’s 
hands and pulled her through the small space — and she 


338 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


lingered uncomfortably long in his arms, whether by 
chance or otherwise, he could only wonder. 

He recovered the torchlight, and the woman took it 
from him. The ray cleaved through shadows and 
stamped a bar of yellow upon a row of oblong wooden 
boxes; traveled across more boxes (the latter, Trent ob- 
served, the length of ordinary rifles) and brought into 
glowing prominence the slender objects that hung upon 
the walls. With a quickening of his heart-beat Trent 
guessed where they were — for the glowing things were 
swords and lances. Piles of armor shone with a re- 
pressed gleam on the floor, and numerous bright shapes 
outside the intimate radiance of the light resolved into 
jeweled pistols such as he had seen in the possession of 
soldiers of the Golden Army. But with the boxes he 
was mainly concerned; their blank sides intrigued him 
and challenged his fancy. 

“We are in the Armory/’ said Sarojini Nanjee, 
“under the center of Lhakang-gompa — not beneath the 
ground, as you would imagine, but just below the sur- 
face of the rocky eminence where the building stands.” 

She let the light rove about the Armory, which was 
vast and stretched on four sides into black obscurity. A 
series of arches and pillars deepened the mystery ; armor 
and various types of weapons kindled dully against a 
background of gloom. There were more wooden boxes 
in remote corners, innumerable piles of them. 

“What do they contain?” he inquired, indicating 
the many boxes. 

As he expected, she lied. 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


339 


“How should I know? Armor, I fancy. Yonder” — 
with a gesture — “is the entrance from the monastery. 
Soldiers guard the other side of the door. . . . Come!” 

As she led off under the arches and along an aisle be- 
tween the boxes, Trent asked himself why stores of ex- 
plosives and ammunition were hidden beneath a Tibetan 
monastery. Perhaps, after all, there was something to 
Hsien Sgam’s revolution 

An arched doorway admitted them to a corridor lined 
with gleaming idols. Hideous frescoes were painted 
upon long panels between the images, and at the end was 
a massive crimson-stained door. Before one of the 
panels Sarojini stopped. The painting was monstrous 
and pictured a three-eyed god standing in the midst of 
skulls and human entrails — a god that Trent recognized 
with a start as the one whose image was wrought on the 
coral symbol of the Order of the Falcon. At regular 
intervals on the panel were four brass rings, each hav- 
ing a long scarlet tassel attached to it. 

Sarojini thrust the torch into Trent’s hand and 
caught one of the brass rings. She twisted it and 
tugged, and the panel yielded, sliding to one side and 
disclosing a dark cavity in the wall. The woman 
stepped in first, Trent following. The recess was not 
more than fifty feet in diameter — a square space with 
frescoed walls. Opposite the entrance, and upon a lac- 
quered pedestal, was a silver image of Janesseron, the 
Three-eyed God of Thunder — and his trio of narrow 
little orbs looked down upon the several chests that were 
pushed against the walls of the small room. 


340 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“You remember/’ began Sarojini, “that you were 
told you would reach enlightenment by gradations? 
.... Now you stand upon the next to the last terrace. ’ ’ 

With that she moved to one of the chests; lifted the 
lid; turned to Trent. 

“Come closer/’ she commanded. 

He did. And his eyes met the glitter of gems. And 
he caught his breath, for he knew he stood in the midst 
of the jewels for which he had penetrated into the for- 
bidden arcanum of Asia. 

“Look,” directed the woman, indicating a card at- 
tached to the inside of the small chest. “It is written 
in Hindustani. See: H. H. Tukaji Rao Holkar III, 
Bahadur, Maharajah of Indore!” 

There was a cool, tinkling sound as she drew from 
the chest a scarf of pearls — tiny lustrous spheres that 
shone like miniature moons. 

“For these,” she said, “Andre Chavigny died.” 

In the dimness, above the ray of the pocket-lamp, 
their eyes met, his expressionless, hers again like black 
opals. He heard her quick breathing — felt, as did she, 

the contagion of the jewels In her hands she 

held a fortune. Vaguely, irrelevantly, he tried to recall 
the sum at which the pearls of Indore were appraised; 
instead, wondered why she wished him to believe Cha- 
vigny out of the game. 

‘ ‘ Hsien Sgam was the first to show me where the jew- 
els were hidden,” she resumed. “But he did not take 
me through the tunnel.” Again the cool, musical tinkle 
as she dropped the pearls into the chest. “We came 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


341 


from the corridors above the Armory. The possibility 
of ever making away with the jewels seemed very 
meager — until I found out that there was a tunnel 
leading from a point somewhere outside the city up 
into the vaults of Lhakang-gompa. I learned it from 
a young layman who was loose of tongue and eager for 
tengas — learned also that there had been trouble be- 
tween Sakya-muni and the Great Magician and that 
the Living Buddha was threatening to depose his chief 
sorcerer. So I went to the Great Magician . . . She 
shrugged. “The lock is easy to him who knows the 
combination ; thus with men .... The tunnel had been 
sealed ; but after the sorcerer ’s men had worked for five 
nights that obstacle was removed. The passage was 
completely opened yesterday. The fool — the magician — 
thinks he will fly with us when we leave and receive a 
portion of the jewels ! But he will never pass the walls 
of Shingtse-lunpo after to-night, nor will he interfere 
with my plans!” 

Before Trent could ask the question that came to the 
end of his tongue Sarojini Nanjee threw back the lid of 
the largest of the chests, and the shimmer and flare of 
gems disconnected thought from speech. 

“The Gaekwar of Baroda,” announced the woman, 
pointing to the card on the inside of the lid. “This is 
the Star of the Deccan.” 

She clasped a necklace of diamonds about her throat, 
and the stones trembled against her skin like spiders of 
fire. 

“Do not they look well about my neck?” she asked 


342 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


in a repressed voice, a voice that shook. Then she 
laughed, but he did not like the symptoms that underlay 
it. He gripped himself. The muscles of his throat 
stood out, and there was about him the air of a man pre- 
paring to do battle. 

Sarojini Nanjee returned the diamonds to the chest. 
Gems rattled. She lifted what seemed a fabric of the 
spun brilliance of the universe — and a flame swept into 
Trent’s brain. This amazing dazzle, as of cascading 
stars, was born of a rug made entirely of pearls, with 
central and corner figures of diamonds; a rug that 
coruscated and blazed as though its weaver had threaded 
the shuttle with flame and woven a carpet for the gods; 
a rug whose gems were multi-hued little serpents that 
coiled about Trent’s brain and sank their fangs into his 
reason. 

The carpet slipped from Sarojini Nanjee ’s hands and 
lay in a quivering heap on the edge of the chest. The 
fire in her eyes matched that of the rug. 

“Millions!” she murmured in a husky voice. “Mil- 
lions!” 

.... As one in a dream, Trent saw her hands stretch 
out to him; felt them on his arms. The touch sent a 
shock of warning through his frame. Involuntarily he 
stiffened and took a step backward — but the perfume of 
her hair, the scent of bruised sandalwood, was in his 
nostrils and on his lips and face, like the fragrant breath 
of the sirocco .... and the hot mystery of her eyes 
challenged him to take the caress that her lips offered. 
(Of the earth always, this Sarojini Nanjee, with earth’s 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


343 


gifts for men.) A deadly languor locked about him. 
He was in some fever -breeding jungle, and she was 
there, this golden woman, very close to him. . . . 

A small incident saved him from Attila’s fate. 

There came a sound, a gentle rattle and patter, like 
cool rain upon his thirsty thoughts. Something seemed 
to snap in his brain, and he moved back a pace — and 
out of the danger zone. He perceived, then, that the 
jewel-carpet had slipped from the chest to the floor, thus 
rescuing him from the very web that it had contrived. 

Sarojini, too, drew back. Chagrin smothered the fire 
from her eyes. Concupiscence in him — her chief 
weapon — w r as broken. She saw by the set of his features 
that control had returned, and knew that having once 
been so close to defeat, he would be thrice as wary as be- 
fore. She had lost in this first campaign. She smiled 
cynically. 

“ You were always a fool, Arnold,” she told him. 
“Another moment and I might have said that to the 
north, across Mongolia, lies Russia .... and there, 
the portals of the world .... you and I . . . . ” She 
smiled again, and there was a trace of bitterness in it. 
“Oh, yes, I can forget Jehelumpore — can forgive. Said 
I not that I am the Swaying Cobra, that I dance for 
those I love, but have only venom for those I hate? 
Now, Arnold, you are your old Anglo-Saxon self again — 
oh, you English, with your ‘sense of honor’ — and to- 
night you will start for India and your humdrum life. 
Yes, we will leave Shingtse-lunpo to-night, with these” 
— she made a gesture — ” and for a while you will be a 


344 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


hero — and then — ” She broke off, still smiling; shrug- 
ged. “Then, in the years that follow, you will often 
remember that night in Tibet when the Swaying Cobra 
might have offered you the wealth of an empire 
. . . . and perhaps you will regret your Anglo-Saxon 
sentimentalism. ’ ’ 

Then she turned and placed in the chest the carpet 
whose only gift to men, down through the years, was a 
dream of crime. Trent drew one hand across his moist 
forehead, as though to wipe away the obftiscations of a 
nightmare. The recollection of his weakness came as a 
hot accusation. His lips had touched the cup of delir- 
ium, and of that shuddering moment there remained but 
the memory — gray anti-climax. 

“We dare not remain here longer,” announced Saro- 
jini. “The Great Magician is a coward, and if we are 
too long we shall find him chattering like the ape that 
he is. I will give you your instructions now. Listen 
well. To-night — it must be near dawn now — I shall 
have a pack-train ready, and in barley sacks, upon the 
animals, will be the jewels. You will send your caravan 
out of the city beforehand, with instructions to wait on 
the road a mile beyond Amber Bridge. Meanwhile, at 
eleven o’clock — remember, eleven — a man will be at 
your house and will guide you to the gate by which we 
left the city this morning, the Great Magician’s Gate. 
There I will meet you. 

‘ ‘ The gems will not be missed until the following day 
— and I have taken precautions to cover our trail. Yes- 
terday a man left with a caravan of yaks, and several 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


345 


miles beyond the tchorten outpost he is waiting. There 
we will change pack-animals. He will go north, along 
the road to Mongolia, with the ponies and mules; while 
we will travel south, with the yaks. The soldiers at the 
outpost will describe us as having been on mules, and 
our pursuers will follow the tracks of the horses and 
mules. When they discover their mistake we will be 
near the border of India — for we shall travel along the 
Himalayas to Gyangtse. There the District Agent will 
protect us.” 

“Can my muleteers leave Shingtse-lunpo without pass- 
ports?” Trent questioned. 

She nodded. ‘ ‘ A passport is necessary only when one 
wishes to enter; it is not required at all of Tibetans. 
. . . . Come, we must go.” 

They left the recess in the wall, closed the panel and 
returned to the vast, dim Armory. Again the blank 
sides of the boxes intrigued Trent. Sarojini, carrying 
the flashlight, preceded him through the aperture in the 
floor and stood on the stair, directing the ray up while 
he fitted the stone into place. Then they descended 
into the crypt. 

The Great Magician was waiting as they had left 
him — sitting cross-legged on the floor. Extinguishing 
the lamp, he placed it upon the bottom step and locked 
the door. 

Back through the tunnel, with its cold, earthy odors, 
they went; reached the crypt in the swamp; ascended 
into the ruins. It was still dark. The rain had 
stopped, but a lingering moisture saturated the cold air. 


346 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Under the gray barren sky they crossed the marsh and 
entered the city. The Tibetan who guided Trent to the 
Great Magician’s temple was waiting just within the 
gate, and there the Englishman parted with Sarojini 
Nanjee. 

4 ‘This man will come for you to-night,” she whis- 
pered in English. “Be ready. To-night we win or 
lose, Arnold — and if we lose, Hsien Sgam will have us 
put to death as he did those mute fools who were ex- 
ecuted in the amphitheater yesterday ! ’ ’ 

She smiled — a smile that might have been a promise 
or a threat — and hurried away with the Great Magician. 

Trent moved off behind his guide. Once more they 
traveled the silent, ghostly streets where only snarling 
curs were astir. The Tibetan uttered never a word — 
not even when he left. At Trent’s house he helped the 
Englishman over the wall, then slunk toward the mouth 
of the lane. 

The muleteers were asleep in the quadrangle, but 
Trent ’s footsteps aroused them. He instructed Hsiao to 
make a fire. Kee Meng, who lay upon a yak-hair robe 
by the main entrance, told him he had been sleeping 
well, that there was little pain and he could stand with- 
out ill effects. 

As Trent dried his clothing by the fire, scenes of the 
past few hours conjured themselves in the darkness be- 
yond the flames. Three things he had learned; three 
things he had yet to learn. He knew where the jewels 
were hidden; knew that Sarojini Nanjee and Hsien 
Sgam were not allied (although her connection with the 


LHAKANG-GOMPA 


347 


Mongol puzzled him) ; knew the woman could tell him 
something about the murder of Manlove (for she was 
in Gaya the night he was killed). But the mystery of 
Chavigny was yet unsolved, as was the mystery of Man- 
love’s death and the mystery of Dana Charteris’ dis- 
appearance. He did not altogether trust Sarojini; the 
incident of the rug (flame to the memory) was a hint of 
some purpose of her own. Furthermore, her plan was 

too simple to be convincing And how much there 

was to be accomplished before eleven o’clock! He had 
one remaining card to play. And he would not wait for 
Hsien Sgam to send for him; he would seek him out, 
force his hand. 

With this purpose established in his mind, he in- 
structed the muleteers to call him three hours after sun- 
rise and went to his room. He was weary — body and 
soul. 

When he fell asleep, dawn was beginning to bleed 
the veins of the East. 


CHAPTER XIII 


FALCON ’S NEST 

I T seemed to Trent that he had scarcely closed his 
eyes before a touch awakened him. Sunlight floated 
through the window in a cloud of gold, and Hsiao, 
the muleteer, stood beside his cot. When he rose he 
felt stiff and empty of vitality; the vampire of utter 
exhaustion had drained him while he slept. A groove 
was worn into his brain, a groove into which all thoughts 
fell unresistingly. 

It was nearly nine o’clock, and a few minutes later 
when he went below he found Kee Meng bending over 
a fire, boiling water for his tea. 

“I thought I told you not to move about,” he said 
sternly to the Mussulman. 

Kee Meng tapped his wound. 4 ‘See, it is well now, 
Tajen /” Then he inclined his head toward the soldier 
who lounged in the gateway. “I was talking to him a 
while ago, Tajen, and he says there is great excitement 
at the house of the councillor, Na-chung, because” — Kee 
Meng winked — “because Na-chung disappeared last 
night and they fear he has been murdered and his body 
thrown to the dogs and vultures! He says they are 
searching the city for the councillor.” 

Trent did not smile. In his eyes was an absent look, 
348 


FALCON’S NEST 349 

as though his brain followed a derelict idea. Presently 
he asked: 

“I Ve had no message from the lama?” 

“ ‘No, Tajen.” 

Trent spent a restless three hours. He went up on 
the roof and smoked and thought. There was something 
pregnant and repressed in the calm blue sky, in the 
gleam of Lhakang-gompa’s golden roofs, and in the 
shimmer and glare of the whitewashed city. He 
waited until noon, hoping he would hear from Kerth; 
but no message came, and, vaguely troubled, he de- 
scended from the roof. He procured his revolver ; 
slipped it under his orange-yellow robe. Then he 
sought Kee Meng, who was in the quadrangle. 

“I am going to the Governor’s house,” he told the 
muleteer. “As soon as the soldier and I have gone, get 
our packs together and you and the men go to the place 
where Hsiao and Kang went last night. Stay there, in 
hiding, until you hear from me. Under no circum- 
stances leave. Deliver the — the thing that- is hidden in 
the cellar only in mjr presence or upon a written order 
from me.” 

“But, Tajen/’ objected Kee Meng, “do you go 
alone?” 

Trent nodded. “Alone.” 

An expression of genuine concern came into the Mus- 
sulman’s oblique eyes. 

“This is an evil city, Tajen ; the Governor is an evil 
man. It was he who commanded the archers yesterday. 
And the brother — what of the brother, Tajen f” 


350 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“I am going now to find him.” Then he called Hsiao. 
“Tell the soldier I wish to go to the Governor’s house,” 
he directed. “Then bring my horse.” 

Fifteen minutes later Trent and the soldier rode out 
of the quadrangle and toward Lhakang-gompa. 

They skirted the outer walls of the monastery and 
followed a wide street through a part of the city that 
was unfamiliar to Trent. The Governor’s residence was 
at the very end, surrounded by a garden and roofed with 
dazzling blue tiles. A soldier admitted them into the 
courtyard, where they waited until a man who, Trent 
imagined, was a chamberlain came out and spoke in 
Tibetan to the soldier. Then the former went inside. 
He reappeared a moment later and beckoned to Trent. 
The Englishman dismounted; left his pony with the 
soldier; followed the chamberlain into the dwelling. 

He was conducted along a hall that was dark after the 
bright sunlight. Curtains parted, swished behind him. 
As his vision became better regulated to the dimness 
he saw a great door, stained cardinal-red. This was 
opened by the chamberlain, who stood aside for him to 
enter The door closed gently behind him. 

He was in a room with scarlet-lacquered walls and 
frescoes like those in the Armory. The silken hangings, 
too, were scarlet, and a single window with an iron grill 
allowed the sunshine to filter through in golden rain. 
Facing him was a silver image of Janesseron, the Three- 
eyed God of Thunder; and beneath the idol, at a Bur- 
mese teakwood table that struck a jarring note in the 


FALCON’S NEST 


351 


otherwise Tibetan room, and in a teakwood chair that 
was equally as incongruous, sat his Transparency Hsien 
Sgam, the Governor of Shingtse-lunpo. 

The Mongol rose an instant after Trent entered and 
limped forward, his hand extended. Realizing it would 
be unwise to offend Hsien Sgam at the outset, the Eng- 
lishman accepted the proffered hand. 

“I am delighted to see you,” — Hsien Sgam paused 
deliberately and smiled — “Mr. Tavernake.” And he 
added: “We may converse without fear of being over- 
heard; there are no eavesdroppers in my house. Will 
you sit down ? I was unprepared for this visit, as I did 
not expect to receive you until to-night, when I hoped 
to have you dine with me — which I still hope you will 
do I trust no trouble brings you?” 

Trent, not surprised by the reception (for east of 
Suez a dagger lurks beneath silk), carefully chose his 
words before he gave tongue to them. 

“I ’ve come to report a loss,” he announced, looking 
directly at Hsien Sgam. 

“Ah!” The Mongol uttered the expletive softly. 

A long pause followed, each man waiting for the other 
to resume. Hsien Sgam took the initiative. 

“I am desolated to learn that you have suffered a loss, 
though of what nature I am not yet aware. We — er — 
find it very difficult to control thievery in the city. May 
I inquire what you lost?” 

The bronze face was as expressionless as that of the 
Buddha it so resembled. Nor was Trent’s face any less 


352 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


impassive. It was as though the two had drawn armor 
about them. 

4 ‘Last night,” said the Englishman, “one of my mule- 
teers disappeared.” 

“Ah!” Again the soft expletive. “Is that strange 
— er — Mr. Tavernake? Is it not likely that he de- 
serted ? ’ ’ 

Trent went on: 

“He w r as attacked while returning from the festival 
with another muleteer. The latter was wounded in the 
struggle, knocked unconscious; and when he awakened 
his companion was gone. Since then I have n ’t seen 
nor heard of the missing muleteer.” 

A smile settled upon Hsien Sgam’s beautiful face. 
Once more Trent caught the illusion: eyes of Lucifer, 
face of Buddha. 

“Be assured, Mr. Tavernake, I shall do all in my 
limited power to learn whither your — er — muleteer has 
been spirited.” 

Trent rested one hand upon his hip, touching the 
steel beneath the robe. 

“I understand,” he began, “that last evening your 
chief councillor, Na-chung, who was kind enough to ac- 
company me to the ceremonies yesterday, was missed 
from his home.” 

Hsien Sgam limped back to his table; sat down; 
folded his hands upon the surface. The close-cropped 
head rose, almost as a deformity, from the dark crim- 
son robe. In that instant he was both sinister and 


FALCON’S NEST 


353 


pathetic, threatening and pleading. Trent saw him as 
a figure curiously detached and aloof from human be- 
ings (the power of the man could not be denied), as 
mentally grotesque and misshapen as his limb. 

4 ‘It is strange,” he declared in those chosen, precise 
words of his, “that the two disappeared on the same 
night, your muleteer and my chief councillor. It is 
quite” — the slant eyes smiled — “quite coincidental.” 
A pause. “Do I — er — strike the nail on the head, as 
they put it in your country, when I say that you come 
for a twofold purpose : to solicit my aid in finding your 
muleteer , and to inform me that you have discovered a 
clue that might lead to the very excellent Na-chung? In 
other words, you suggest a compromise: I agree to di- 
rect my efforts toward recovering your — er — lost one, 
if you produce the clue that will lead us to the council- 
lor.” 

Another smile. Trent, too, smiled — only inwardly. 
There was something droll in the situation. 

‘ ‘ Did you consider, ’ ’ the Mongol continued, ‘ ‘ that — er 
— my duties may be quite pressing and that I might find 
it difficult to spare the time to devote to searching for 
your — muleteer ?” 

“But surely,” Trent parleyed, “in return for the ser- 
vice I can render, you will find it convenient to spare 
time enough to repay me?” 

Hsien Sgam’s eyes contemplated the surface of the 
table; his fingers worked with nervous energy. 

“Suppose,” he suggested, “even then I find it im- 


354 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


possible to respond to a suggestion that under other 
conditions and at another time would be welcome. 
What then?” 

“Then,” answered Trent, “I should call the compro- 
mise a failure. ’ ’ 

Silence. Presently Hsien Sgam spoke: 

“Let us cast aside pretenses,” he said in his quiet, 
restrained manner. “You have brought — I hesitate 
to say it — war into my camp, so to speak, and you ex- 
pect me to accept the first terms that are offered.” He 
linked his hands together. “That is impossible, Mr. 
Tavernake.” He rose. There was a queer majesty 
about him. “Nor do I think it wise for you to resort 
to — to crude enforcements such as you now contem- 
plate.” He smiled with self-assurance. “Consider the 
results. You would not gain your objective ; you would 
be acting as did the man in your very excellent English 
parable about a fowl and a golden egg.” 

Then he lifted his hand and rapped upon the table — 
and almost instantly the door behind Trent opened. 
The Englishman did not turn, though he heard the foot- 
steps of more than one. 

“Suppose” — this suavely from the Mongol — “we de- 
clare an armistice, as it were, until to-niglit? It will 
afford me great pleasure to offer you the hospitality of 
my residence and thus eliminate the inconvenience of 
riding back to your house in the midday sun. At eight 
o’clock to-night we will dine — is not that the conven- 
tional European hour ? — at which time we can discuss a 


FALCON’S NEST 355 

compromise. Also the duties which you shall assume in 
Shingtse-lunpo. ’ ’ 

He spoke a few words in what Trent imagined was 
Tibetan to those standing behind the Englishman. 
Then he addressed Trent again. 

‘ ‘ Shall I be presuming if I suggest that you give into 
my keeping that which you have under your robe?” 
He smiled. “You see, not being familiar with the 
customs of my country, you are not aware that it is 
considered an act of discourtesy for a guest to keep any 
sort of firearm during a visit, no matter how brief. You 
will forgive me for assuming the role of instructor ? ’ ’ 

Trent drew the revolver from beneath his garments; 
passed it to Hsien Sgam. The latter accepted it with 
the air of one receiving a token of surrender. He bowed 
slightly. 

“Now you will accompany my servants to the guest 
chamber, which I trust you will find comfortable, al- 
though it is not quite up to the standard of those of 
your very modern country.” 

Trent turned. Two soldiers, each armed with ancient- 
looking jewelled pistols, were standing just within the 
doorway. He left the room between the guards. 

2 

To a room on the second story of the Governor’s 
residence Trent was taken. An iron door shut with 
strident clangor behind him. He saw neither lock nor 
bolt as he entered, and, after waiting for several mo- 


356 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


ments, he tried the door, a purely perfunctory act. To 
his surprise it swung back — and showed him, in the 
corridor-gloom, two mailed, armed soldiers. This was 
the first eye-proof of captivity. 

Trent closed the door and delivered his attention to 
the room. It was large and of stone, and gory frescoes 
were painted upon the wall-panels. There were two 
windows, each barred and offering a view of the city — 
a waste of terraced white, almost blinding in the sun- 
light, crowned by the monastery and its golden roofs. 
Trent peered out of one window, then the other. Both 
looked down upon a wide roadway. For a moment he 
gazed at the few monks and soldiers that came and 
went below, then moved to a bench fixed against the 
wall and sank heavily, with the uncertain air of a 
drunken man, upon the red cushions. There was the 
same suggestion of intoxication in his eyes, which were 
veined with red from loss of sleep. 

He removed his mushroom-shaped hat and furrowed 
his black-dyed hair. His was the despair of a gambler 
who has plunged, who perceives defeat for himself in 
the first hand and after that plays without hope, with 
only the will to hope. 

Like something remote and beyond reach, something 
dim as a dream, was the thought of Dana Charteris. 
His interview with Hsien Sgam drove out the mystery 
surrounding her abduction, but left an infinitude of 
apprehensions. The purpose that actuated the Mongol 
to such a move was not obscure. Yet if she were a 
hostage, he need not fear for her safety — for the present. 


FALCON'S NEST 357 

Eight o'clock — much hinged on that. What would the 
Mongol demand? 

A deeper tide of thoughts brought to focus interests 
other than personal. If Sarojini Nanjee succeeded in 
her venture, she would be waiting at the Great Magi- 
cian’s Gate at the appointed time. And if he was still 
a prisoner then? But, even if he succeeded in freeing 
himself, he could not go without Dana Charteris. Nor 
could he abandon Kerth Knotted cords, and ap- 

parently no loose ends with which to work. His only 
foil was the fact that he held the secret of Na-chung’s 
whereabouts — a slim weapon with which to fight a more 
cunningly armed opponent. 

Kerth. Where was Kerth now ? In Lhakang-gompa ? 
How could he get word to him? Bribe the soldiers? 
He dared not try; his message might fall into Hsien 

Sgam’s hands and thus destroy Kerth 's chances 

But he did not know where to reach Kerth — a difficulty 
he had entirely overlooked. 

He rose, and his eyes wandered about the room. As 
a matter of course, he tried the bars of the windows. 
His efforts led only to a fuller realization of his plight. 
Taken without violence, in a room with an unlocked door, 
he was as securely confined as though he were chained 
and in a dungeon. 

He returned to the bench to wait — wait for eight 
o’clock. As the minutes dragged by his nerves under- 
went a gradual disintegration. Anxiety, mental and 
physical weariness — they were the destroying forces. 
He walked the floor It was exquisite torture, 


358 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


this waiting- something inquisitional about it. He 
fled from it, in thoughts, to Dana Charteris, as a per- 
secuted worshipper to the healing coolness and quiet 
of temple corridors 

Sunlight ceased to reflect its glare upon the white- 
washed houses, and the gilded roofs of Lhakang-gompa 
floated in the gathering twilight like islands on a dusky 
sea. A rosy light spread above the city, above the 
towering lamasery, and deepened from pink to sullen 
red, like the flaming promise of an angry Stromboli. 
There was something sinisterly significant — a devil’s 
symbol — in the sunset ; thrice significant to Trent as he 
paced his prison and watched the crimson dye stain- 
ing the city. For what seemed little more than a 
moment Shingtse-lunpo swam in the wine-light as in 
blood ; then night touched sun-scorched walls with 
soothing hands and drew a veil of secrecy over the 
sprawling mass of houses. 

As the luminous hands of Trent’s watch approached 
eight o’clock he heard sounds outside his door — foot- 
steps and muffled tones. Figuratively, he gave himself 
into the hands of his kismet. 

The door opened. Polished armor shone in the dimly 
lighted hall. A hand beckoned to him. Between 
armed soldiers he left the room and descended to the 
lower floor. 

Hsien Sgam, in his robes of office, stood waiting in 
the scarlet chamber where he had received Trent that 
morning; and his greeting, — the quintessence of irony 


FALCON’S NEST 359 

— his quiet, self-assured smile, made Trent falter in his 
diplomatic resolution to sheathe his antagonism. 

One of the soldiers drew aside a scarlet curtain, 
revealing an arched doorway and, beyond, a long, dim 
hall. There a table was set. Tapers in a European 
candelabrum threw flickering light upon European sil- 
verware. 

“You will observe,” said Hsien Sgam, with a wave 
of his slender hand, ‘ ‘ that I have been educated to your 
manner of eating. I generally relapse into barbarism, 
but this is an occasion — a celebration, as it were, in 
honor of the arrival of the first Englishman in 
Shingtse-lunpo. ’ 9 

Hsien Sgam sat across the table from Trent, and 
behind him — grim reminders of his power — stood two 
soldiers, one on either side of the scarlet-curtained 
archway. It was clear that the Mongol was not a 
gambler. . „ . . Three Tibetan women, their faces 
smeared with kutch, served. There was little pretense 
at conversation, and the trying mockery of the meal 
was half over before Hsien Sgam broke the prolonged 
strain. 

“Let us not be deceived,” he began, “but under- 
stand each other at the very start ; let us, as you would 
say, commence with clean slates.” He smiled over a 
cup of tea — tea brewed in the English fashion, and 
not the sickening gruel that masquerades under that 
name in Tibet. “As you have probably guessed, I 
know you are not he who the very beautiful Sarojini 


360 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Nanjee would have me believe you — one Tavernake, 
a jeweller — but Major Trent — er — Major Arnold 
Ralph Trent, R. A. M. C., I believe is the full title, 
working in the interests of those who would commit 
the lamentable mistake of interfering with the affairs 
of others.” 

The Mongol continued to smile. 4 ‘ Furthermore, let 
it be understood that the fact that I know this does 
not in the least prejudice me against you. That one 
is blind is not his own fault. To enlighten you, to 
give you true sight — that is my purpose.” 

Trent met Hsien Sgam’s gaze with unwavering eyes. 

“At one time you were prejudiced,” he suggested 
pointedly. 

The smile seemed painted immortally upon the Mon- 
gol’s bronze face. He nodded slightly. 

“You refer, I presume, to the incident at Rangoon 
— when I came near committing a grave error? For 
the while I was deluded into believing it would be 
wiser for you not to continue to Shingtse-lunpo ; I now 
see that I was wrong. I crave your forgiveness for 
that — er — almost indiscretion . 9 ’ 

Once more the grim humor of the situation, the 
grotesquery of it, became apparent to Trent. This 
anomaly of a creature! Eternally the two elements 
of his being seemed warring — the Lucifer and the 
Buddha. 

“Perhaps you will understand more clearly,” said 
Hsien Sgam, “if I go back into the years — the years 
of the locust, your Christian Bible calls them 


FALCON’S NEST 361 

You will forgive the fact that I am personal. It is 
necessary. ’ ’ 

He spoke to one of the serving-women and she dis- 
appeared behind a curtain, to return a moment later 
with a silver tray. Trent almost laughed aloud; per- 
haps it was the tension Cigarettes! .... He 

welcomed the smoke; it would clear his brain. Both 
he and the Mongol lighted their cheroots in a candle- 
flame. The latter’s face seemed to swim in the blue 
clouds, his woman ’s-mouth twisted into that persistent, 
graven smile. 

“I am an experiment,” Hsien Sgam commenced. 
“Whether a success or a failure, I will let you judge. 
It is the custom in Mongolia to deliver one child from 
every family to the lamas for monastic training. I 
was chosen from a group of four brothers and destined 
from birth for holy orders. Very early — so early that 
I cannot quite remember it — I was given into the 
charge of the abbot of a monastery at Urga. I was 
a — I believe ‘acolyte’ is your word for it. When I 
was fourteen there was a celebration at Urga; it is 
called the Ts’am Haren. During the races I was 
injured; my pony fell on my limb. I was ill for 
many days. When I grew better they told me I would 

be lame, always That very night my mother 

had a vision : she saw me harnessed in golden mail and 
upon a white horse, leading a great army. I was dn a 
mountain-top, she said, with legions about me, on the 
slopes and in the valleys; and at my feet was Asia. 
She saw a flame, with the face of Timur the Lame in 


362 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


it, descend into my body. Thus the soul of the great 
conqueror came to rest in the body of her second born.” 

The smile had faded from Hsien Sgam’s face; there 
was in his eyes a glow that hid the devil-light. All 
the beauty of Buddha shone upon the bronze features. 

“That was how I became a — what is the word? — 
messiah?” He went on: “A conference of the 
princes was held in the palace of the Hut’ukt’u, and it 
was proposed that I be sent to acquire the learning of 
the white lords. The Hut’ukt’u opposed it, for he was 
afraid that eventually I would have more power thanrj* 
he. But in the night I was taken away, by swiftest 
camel, and with the treasure of my house in goatskin 
bags. My mother accompanied me to Kalgan, then 
turned back — but my father went on to Peking. The 
Manchu woman was on the throne at the time. She 
had heard that a Mongol prince was being sent away 
to be educated in Western schools and return and 
establish an independent empire, and she, like the 
Hut’ukt’u, was afraid. She sent assassins. I escaped 
— but my father . . . .” 

He shrugged; smiled. The shining look went from 
his face; his beauty was again that of Lucifer, the 
fallen angel. 

“So I went. I studied after the manner of English- 
men I wonder” — he leaned across the table 

toward Trent — “I wonder if you can understand my 
feelings there, a boy, in an alien land? Gray build- 
ings and rushing trains and electricity — the roar of 
a modern Babylon — after yoiirts and camels and 


FALCON’S NEST 363 

candlelight ! There where men denounce polygamy 
and encourage prostitution! 

“It was a slow death to me, a numbness that com- 
menced in my limbs and rose up — up — until it touched 
the very source of my thinking. Your Civilization 
with its civilized vices plucked something vital, some- 
thing unexplainable, from me But I stayed; I 

learned; and when I had finished, I returned. But 
not as he who had left — who had wept when his father 
fell under the blade of a Manchu assassin. I had gone 
as the dreamer; I came back as the awakened sleeper, 
incensed toward those who had replaced visions with 
sordid reality That was in the year that Chris- 

tian calendars call nineteen hundred and four — the 
year Tubdan Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, forsook Lhassa.” 

Their cheroots had burned out. The scent of stale 
tobacco hung in the air like an unclean aura. To 
Trent it seemed the essence of Hsien Sgam’s story — 
his tragedy. 

“The Dalai Lama came to Urga,” Hsien Sgam con- 
tinued. “The Hut’ukt’u was jealous of him and he 
made his stay as unpleasant as possible. But before 
the Dalai Lama left, I spent many hours with him. 
Our cause was progressing slowly when the revolution 
against the Manchus came ; then Yuan Shih-kai, and the 
restoration of Tubdan Gyatso. But the Church had 
lost much power. A conference was called at Lhassa 
and it was deeided that a new Head be formed — an 
invisible Head, unknown to the English and other ag- 
gressors. Shingtse-lunpo was chosen. It became the 


364 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Head of the Church— a sort of Vatican. It was the 
will of Gaudama Siddartha that a certain Grand 
Lama's body should be the vessel for his spirit. Thus 
came the title of Sakya-muni to His Holiness Lobsang 
Yshe Naktsang, the Supreme Lama of the Gelugpa. It 
was also deemed advisable by the Council of Lamas 
that I should go to the new monastery of the Head and 
be invested with the power of Governor of the city. 
I was to be a — er — connecting link between Tibet and 
Mongolia. 

“Dorjieff, the Buriat monk, had promised us the 
aid of Russia. Frequently, before the invasion of 
Lhassa, he acted as an intermediary between the Czar 
and the Dalai Lama, and on one occasion the Russian 
emperor sent Tubdan Gyatso the vestments of a — 
how is it called? — a bishop? — of the Russian church. 
But the Russian monarch fell in the war, and hope of 
Russian aid dwindled. China was strangling Mon- 
golia; Tibet had asserted her rights. Then came the 
Kiachta Convention. We thought we had won. But 
the Hut’ukt’u is a coward. With Semenov on one side, 
threatening, and Japan on the other (it developed later 

that both were the same), he became frightened 

You know what happened." 

Hsien Sgam passed cigarettes to Trent, who refused; 
selected one himself; lighted it. 

“It appeared that we were facing defeat," he re- 
sumed. “We had no money — perhaps a little in the 
treasuries, but not enough to propagate our plans. It 
seemed imminent that Japan would build the Kalgan- 


FALCON’S NEST 


365 


Kiachta railway, and such a thing would mean the end 

of the dream of a Mongol empire Ah, these 

railways! Keys to power! French — er — capital is 
behind the Chinese-Eastern Railway. Also the Yun- 
nan Railways. The South Manchurian and the Shan- 
tung railways are Japanese-controlled. Chinese sover- 
eignty in the districts where there are foreign-owned 
railways is a mere word. 

“Thus it would be in Mongolia, if the Kalgan-Ki- 
achta railway were built by Japanese money. But how 
could it be stopped? Mongolia herself had no money. 
The only way was, as I once told you, through revolu- 
tion. Establish Mongolian control and refuse a con- 
cession to any power to construct the rail line. And 
that way, too, was obstructed by lack of — er — funds. 
.... Then the gods sent an answer to our prayers 
in the form of a foreigner — a man whom you know by 
the name of Andre Chavigny.” 

The muscles of Trent’s jaw moved perceptibly at 
this announcement; otherwise, he sat motionless, hands 
grasping the edge of the table, eyes upon Hsien Sgam. 

“There was a very great disturbance in Lhakang- 
gompa,” the Mongol pressed on, “when it was reported 
one day that a white man had been discovered — er — 
masquerading in the city. His Holiness charged me 
to interview the prisoner and ascertain how much he 
had learned. This I did, and you may imagine my 
amazement upon discovering that this white man was 
the Andre Cha vigny of whom I had heard in Europe. 

“His true purpose in Shingtse-lunpo I have never 


366 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


learned from his lips, but I am of the opinion that he 
might have been deluded by fantastic tales of jewels 
and wealth in the vaults of Lhakang-gompa. He knew 
he had seen too much to be allowed to leave; that is 
why he made me a most amazing — er — proposition. I 
believe I can recall the very words he uttered. He 
said : 1 1 have heard of your plans for a revolt against 
China. Give me my life and I will finance you.’ ” 

Hsien Sgam laughed — a low, soft sound. 

“ Conceive the situation, major: this adventuring 
Frenchman, with only a few tengas , offering to finance 
the revolution! It was — do you say, droll f But I 
listened to him. In this very room we talked, and he 
sat where you are sitting now. He has a tongue as 
of satin. He talked for his life that night, and what 
he told me amazed me. I did not believe it could be 
done at first. I told him so, and sent him to the guest 
chamber which you occupied, while I thought and 

thought I went out on the city-walls. I looked 

toward Mongolia — Mongolia dying — and I realized that 
this Andre Chavigny should live.” 

The serving-women had disappeared; Trent and the 
Mongol were alone but for the two mailed sentinels 
at the doorway. 

“It is not difficult for you to imagine what Andre 
Chavigny told me,” said Hsien Sgam. “Before 
venturing into Tibet he had been in India— had visited 
the cities of Baroda, Indore, Gwalior. ... He had seen 
jewels worth many millions of English pounds. He 
had seen and planned — only planned. Of those gems 


FALCON’S NEST 


367 


he told me — of his plan, too. He had observed, he said, 
the monks of Shingtse-lunpo cutting coral and tur- 
quoise ornaments; therefore, why could not they, under 
the proper direction, re-cut and re-set diamonds and 
emeralds and rubies? He knew of a market — sub rosa 
is the expression he used. And for a certain — er — 
percentage — he offered to finance the revolution. 

“I presented the plan to His Holiness — with my 
approval — and after hours of contemplation he an- 
nounced that the gods had sanctioned his consent. So 
the Order of the Falcon was formed — the Falcon, 
whose speedy wings would enable him to defeat the 
Japanese Black Dragon. 

“When all arrangements were completed, Andre 
Chavigny and I, with a few associates, set out for 
India — through Burma, as you came here. Andre 
Chavingy went to Indore, I to Jehelumpore, other mem- 
bers of the Order to Baroda, Gwalior, Alwar, Jodpur, 
Tanjore, Bahawalpur and Mysore. Meanwhile, the 
abbot of Tsagan-dhuka was journeying with a band of 
pilgrims to the Sacred Bo-tree at Buddh-Gaya. 

“In the work which I had to do at Jehelumpore it 
became necessary for me to cultivate some one who had 
— entree , the French say — who had entree into the 
Nawab’s palace. The gods decreed that it should be 
Sarojini Nanjee. I met her. And to me, for the first 
time, came love of woman.” 

Hsien Sgam’s smile underwent a metamorphosis — 
became the smile of one who tastes the gall of a bitter 
memory. Again, as on that night on the Manchester, 


368 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Trent felt the heat of his words — words drawn from 
the vortices of emotion. 

“I tell you this,” explained the Mongol, 1 ‘a thing 
I have told no man, so that you may fully understand. 
. . . . Shinje! How I loved! I was the monk awak- 
ened to the world : desiring, as a man who sees a spring 

in the desert thirsts — blindly, extravagantly I 

told her of my dream of empire ; I offered her a throne, 
and she consented to come to Tibet. Thus Sarojini 
Nanjee became a member of the Order of the Falcon 
— and my betrothed. 

“Then came the night of June the fourteenth. You, 
as well as the English police, wondered how the jewels 
were removed when every border, every means of 
egress, was guarded. It was not difficult; it merely 
necessitated extreme caution. The day following the 
disappearance of the gems a coffin left each of the 
cities, accompanied by some — er — ‘ relative ’ of the ‘de- 
ceased.’ These” — his smile expanded — “were de- 
livered to the Abbot of Tsagan-dhuka and his lamas. 
After that, it was very simple. The jewels went with 
the pilgrims to Darjeeling. Then — ■” He gestured 
expressively. 

A pause followed. Before Hsien Sgam took up his 
narrative he pressed his nearly burnt-out cigarette into 
a bowl — stared at the ashes as though each gray fleck 
was the dust of a dream. 

“I was in Delhi when I first heard of you — and that 
Sarojini Nanjee had betrayed me Betrayed by 


FALCON’S NEST 


369 


the woman I loved! .... At first I was puzzled as 
to how to meet this situation — that is, your entrance into 
our sphere of activities ; whether to — to do away 
with you, or allow you to continue until a later time. 
I decided upon the latter course, for it suddenly oc- 
curred to me that you, being a military man, might be 
— er — persuaded to direct your efforts into another 
channel. A servant of mine in the employ of Saro- 
jini Nanjee — a man named Chandra Lai — kept me ac- 
quainted with your every move. Thus I was able to 
take the same boat as you and to realize I had been 
wise in assuming you might prove of more value alive 
than .... otherwise. In Kangoon I suffered a 
moment of indecision, and almost defeated my original 
purpose. By what happened I saw that the gods dis- 
approved of my — er — quenching the vital spark, as 
the Kanjur says. 

“I ordered your presence at the festival yesterday 
because I wished you to see how we dispose of traitors. 
The men who died were members of the Order who 
committed grave — er — errors. . . . And speaking of 
errors reminds me to acquaint, you with the fate 
which you would have met to-night had not I inter- 
vened.” 

He rose and limped across the room, halting at a 
window whose draperies were drawn. He faced Trent. 

“I am informed that Sarojini Nanjee, with the aid 
of the Great Magician, penetrated through the old 
passage into the Armory,” he declared quietly, "and 


370 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


that she plans to leave the city to-night — with you. I 
am also told that she has led you to believe that you 
will travel to India — while she secretly conspires to 
have you murdered after leaving Shingtse-lunpo. This 
is for a twofold purpose, I understand. She wishes 
to rid herself of your presence, so she may continue 
with the jewels to Chinese Turkestan; and the other 

reason Well, I — er — believe there is an old 

wrong which she wishes to avenge. Last night a mes- 
senger left for India, with instructions from her to 
report to your Government that you have fled across 
Tibet, presumably to Mongolia, with the jewels — that 
you ran amuck, as it were.” 

He parted the window-draperies with one hand, 
motioning to Trent with the other. The Englishman 
got to his feet and joined him. 

“Observe those men,” Hsien Sgam directed, indi- 
cating a group of soldiers in the courtyard. “Within 
an hour they start for the ruined gateway of the old 
fortifications on the edge of the marsh, outside the city. 
Sarojini Nanjee must pass these ruins if she leaves 
Shingtse-lunpo, as the road from the Great Magician’s 
Gate leads directly to the old gateway. There my men 

will wait. They have specific orders what to do 

Sarojini Nanjee will attend to the Great Magician 
and thus relieve me of that task.” 

The curtain dropped into place. Trent was strug- 
gling with insurgent thoughts Sarojini Nanjee 

— eleven o’clock .... Kerth .... Where was he — 
and Dana Charteris? .... He sorted from the many 


FALCON’S NEST 371 

incoherences a question that had been trembling on his 
tongue for the past half hour. 

“What of Chavigny?” he asked. 

“Chavigny?” Hsien Sgam repeated. “You will 
meet Chavigny before many hours.” 

Trent was possessed of a mad desire to laugh. Who 
was telling the truth, Sarojini Nanjee or Hsien Sgam? 
.... Chavigny, the celebrated Chavigny! 

“As I told you one night on shipboard,” he heard 
the Mongol saying, “our troops are good fighters, but 
untrained. They need a competent leader — a tactician. 
Organization ; training. Those are the necessary 
elements. And they must be taught with the technique 
of modern warfare, by some one who understands the 
mechanism of a great unit of men. If you will accept 
that post, your title will be that of Commanding General. 
From Shingtse-lunpo you will go into Inner Mongolia, 
where preparations are under way to launch a big 
offensive. We have already taken a few strides. On 
the fifth of this month Urga was captured and Un- 
gem’s ‘White Guards’ defeated. But without organ- 
ized force all this work will have been accomplished 

for nothing You will be well repaid for your 

services. When I am Emperor of Mongolia I shall not 
forget. ’ ’ 

Trent’s aggressive jaw was shot forward; but for 
that his expression was unchanged. 

“You seem to forget I am an Englishman,” he 
reminded. 

Hsien Sgam merely smiled. “Men have lost their 


372 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


identities before. Sarojini Nanjee’s messenger is on 
his way to India. That will account for yonr absence 
to the Government. ’ ’ 

Trent looked almost amused. “A sort of birthright- 
for-a-mess-of -pottage affair, isn’t it?” 

“I do not comprehend” — thus the Mongol. 

Trent did not try to explain. He queried: “What 
if I prefer to do otherwise than as you suggest?” 

“I am prepared against such a decision.” That 
lurking smile returned. “Na-chung, who is a very 
wise councillor, suspected that your muleteer was — er 
— not as you represented him — or, I should say, her. 
I ordered an investigation That you were ac- 

companied by a woman, evidently one to whom you 
are — er — attached, was all I could have wished for. 
. . . . I acted. She has not been molested; nor will 
she be, if you accept the terms which I have offered.” 

Trent’s nails dug fiercely into his palms. It was 
with an effort that he kept his face in an expressionless 
mold. 

“And if I agree?” 

“She will be returned to India, unharmed and with 
the proper escort.” 

“How can I be sure of that?” 

“She will write to you from Darjeeling.” 

“You forget the councillor, Na-chung.” 

“We shall find him,” Hsien Sgam stated confidently. 

“Dead,” Trent added. “He is hidden— hidden 
where you ’ll not easily find him. My muleteers are 
there — with instructions — and if they have not heard 


FALCON’S NEST 373 

from me by midnight, they ’ll put an end to Na- 
chung.” 

Hsien Sgam continued to smile. “You will counter- 
mand that order,” he said evenly. 

“No,” declared Trent, quite as evenly. 

They faced each other for a space of seconds, neither 
speaking. Then the Mongol announced: 

“If he is murdered, you will be charged with it and 
properly punished” — he paused and finished effectively 
— “after you have done the work which I intend you 
shall do. Otherwise, at the conclusion of the period 
of service you are free.” 

A reckless impulse stormed the battlement of Trent’s 
control. Hsien Sgam seemed to sense it, for he spoke 
up. 

“Consider well, major. One pays for a moment’s 
folly in the coin of years.” 

What passed in Trent’s mind the next few moments 
no man ever knew; it is doubtful if even Trent himself 
remembered afterward. His thoughts were laved in 
poison. . . . He felt something of purgatorial fire — 
a burning of brain and nerves. But in the heat was 
a sphere of starry luster — a face, alone cool and 
composed in the midst of what seemed some terrific 
volcanic disorder of the body. It was this luster that 
led him at length to a decision. 

“There ’s no alternative.” He heard his voice in a 
queer, separated manner. “When I have proof that 
Miss Charteris has reached India, I will do as you de- 
mand .... but . . . .” 


374 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“But if you have the opportunity / 7 Hsien Sgam cut 
in, linking his slender fingers and smiling, “you will 
furnish me with a passport to that — er — sulphurous 
dominion which your Christian Bible threatens. Be 
assured, major, I shall guard against any such — er — 
personal catastrophe. 7 7 

Then he spoke to one of the soldiers, who immediately 
left the room. He turned back to Trent. 

“We will go now — this very moment — to His Holi- 
ness, and — er — draw up the contract, so to speak, in 
his auspicious presence. This visit to Lhakang-gompa 
will serve a double purpose, for at the same time I 
shall initiate you into the mysteries of ‘ That sang,’ or 
* Falcon’s Nest , 7 as you would say it — the room where 
the Falcon planned the recent activities in India. It 
will be necessary for you to ride to the monastery; 
therefore, I tnust have your word of honor not to — er 
— commit any act of violence that might force me to 
adopt an abortive policy . 77 

The soldier reappeared, holding aside the scarlet 
curtains. 

“You will precede me / 7 directed Hsien Sgam, with 
a polite wave of his hand, evidently enjoying the ex- 
quisite satire of the situation. 

Trent moved into the scarlet audience-chamber, fol- 
lowed by his Transparency the Governor of Shingtse- 
lunpo and his mailed bodyguard. 

3 

To Trent there was grim irony in that ride to Lha- 


FALCON'S NEST 


375 


kang-gompa. Hsien Sgam’s vermilion-lacquered sedan- 
chair swayed along at his side, and in front and rear 
was a file of leather -helmeted men. In a courtyard 
of the great building (they rode up a stone causeway 
to reach it) the Mongol left his sedan-chair and Trent 
dismounted. One of the soldiers took the lead, Trent 
walking next, with Hsien Sgam and the other guards in 
the rear — a formation whose strategic points the Eng- 
lishman did not fail to perceive. 

With their entrance into the lower halls of Lhakang- 
gompa the usual smell of incense and putridity, a 
combination of odors peculiarly Tibetan, assaulted their 
nostrils and clung as they climbed staircase after stair- 
case; as they plunged along lamp-lit corridors where 
lamas moved like wraiths in the dimness ; crossed 
courts and roofs, glimpsing the stars and the white 
flame of a rising moon; and even when they reached 
a heavily-carpeted, crimson-walled apartment that 
Hsien Sgam informed Trent was the first ante-chamber 
of Sakya-muni’s audience hall. A large room, this, 
and occupied by several lamas who sat at pearl-inlaid 
tables — chamberlains of the Yellow Pontiff. To one 
of these cardinals Hsien Sgam spoke, and the former 
parted lacquered sliding-doors and disappeared. 

“I am told that His Holiness has been indisposed 
to-day," Hsien Sgam explained to Trent, “and has 
refused to see anyone, even his attendant cardinals. 
However, the Donyer-chenpo has gone to see if he will 
grant us an audience." 

Trent showed little interest as they waited— but the 


376 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


pulse in his throat was throbbing hotly. He watched 
with expressionless eyes the lacquered doors from be- 
hind which the Donyer-chenpo, or chamberlain, would 
reappear. And at length the cardinal came. The doors 
parted and he stepped out, motioning to Hsien Sgam. 
The latter moved forward and held a short conversation 
with the prelate, then nodded to Trent, who, with the 
soldiers at his heels, joined them. 

“His Holiness has consented to see us” — this briefly 
from the Mongol. 

Beyond the lacquered doors was a stairway that took 
them into a chamber similar to the one they had 
left. Two lamas were the only occupants, one on 
either side of a great door covered with cerise and gold 
brocade and ornamented with knobs of gold filagree. 
Here they exchanged their shoes for soft black slippers, 
and here they left the soldiers. 

The Donyer-chenpo pushed back the great door. 
They entered. Trent was confused by darkness; then 
came a swishing sound, and a thin line of light broad- 
ened into a triangle as draperies were pulled aside. 

The first impression, due to the vastness of the audi- 
ence hall and the dim glow of the butter-lamps, was 
one of space and gloom and mystery. A double line 
of pillars strove toward a chain-spanned impluvium 
through which stars were visible, and along the walls 
were idols and holy vessels — brazen bowls and cymbals 
and incense-burners. Toward the rear, at the end of 
the avenue of columns, was a raised portion of the 
floor, covered with yellow silks. There, beneath a can- 


FALCON’S NEST 


377 


opy and seated upon a throne whose arms were carved 
lions, attended by the Kuchar Khanpo and the Solen- 
chenpo — state officials — was his Holiness, Sakya-muni, 
the Grand Lama of Tibet. He wore the yellow mitre, 
yellow veil and yellow vestments that Trent had seen 
at the Festival of the Gods, and his slim hands rested 
motionless, as though wrought of bronze, upon the 
carved lions of the throne. 

Hsien Sgam bowed low, whispering to Trent to do the 
same. As the latter drew erect he saw that the Donyer- 
chenpo had disappeared ; the following instant he heard 
the muffled sound of a closing door behind him. 

Meanwhile, Sakya-muni motioned them forward, his 
yellow mitre nodding. 

“His Holiness means for us to be seated on the 
rugs below the throne-dais / 9 said Hsien Sgam in a 
hushed voice. 

The two, Englishman and Mongol, took seats, cross- 
legged, upon the carpets before the raised portion of 
the floor that supported the pontifical throne. A thin 
voice sounded from under the veil 

“His Holiness bids you greeting,” translated Hsien 
Sgam, “and prays that the blessing of the Three 
Konchog be upon you. In return, I shall give him 
your” — the shadow of a smile slid across the oblique 
eyes — ■ ‘ your — er — f elicit ations. ’ ’ 

The two yellow-robed attendants then served tea in 
golden chalices. Sakya-muni did not drink his, but 

blessed it and passed it to the Kuchar Khanpo 

Incense brushed Trent’s face, like a tangible touch. 


378 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


.... The ceremony of tea-drinking over, he waited 
restlessly for the next move. 

The Grand Lama spoke in his thin voice to the 
attendants, who backed to a corridor at one side of the 
audience-hall and vanished, leaving Trent and Hsien 

Sgam alone with the Living Buddha Sakya- 

muni was murmuring to himself — reciting a mantra, 
Trent imagined. There was something checked and 
imminent in the solemn quiet 

Suddenly Sakya-muni ceased murmuring. He lifted 
one hand. Immediately Hsien Sgam got to his feet, 
instructing Trent to do the same. The Grand Lama 
rose, his yellow vestments shimmering faintly in the 
cathedral-dusk. He spoke. Trent, who was watching 
the Mongol out of the corner of his eye, saw a look of 
surprise dwell for a second in the latter’s face; saw 
Hsien Sgam produce from under his garments an 
object that glinted like blue steel; saw him pass it to 
Sakya-muni. 

Then the reincarnation of Gaudama Siddartha re- 
moved mitre and veil with one hand (he held the glint- 
ing object in the other) and stepped down from the 
dais — only it was not Sakya-muni who did this, but 
Euan Kerth in the vestments of the Lamaist pontiff; 
Euan Kerth, smiling his satanic smile and looking 
like some shaven-pated Mephistopheles. 

4 

The blood pulsed in Trent’s temples. For once his 
stupefaction escaped the citadel of his impassivity. 


FALCON’S NEST 


379 


Nor could Hsien Sgam control his amazement. The 
Mongol stared — stared with the air of a man struggling 
to grasp something beyond his ken of thought, beyond 
possibility. 

Kerth’s voice broke the spell — proof to Trent that 
what he saw was no sorcery of the eyes. 

“I ’m not so sure our friend the Governor has no 
other firearms on his person. Suppose you investigate, 
major.” 

At the sound of the voice, a voice that spoke English, 
Hsien Sgam seemed to awaken to a realization of the 
situation. Surprise was replaced by a queer, half- 
dazed expression. 

“I have been without wits,” he said, more to himself 
than to the others. “I did not for a moment consider 
that there might be two — that . . . .” Words perished 
on his lips. His breathing was audible — the heavy 
breathing of one suddenly stricken. He recovered 
enough to ask: “His Holiness — what have you dene to 
him? Have you — ” 

“It ’s hardly my place to answer questions, ’ ’ drawled 
Kerth : * ‘ surely not my intention. ’ ’ Then : “Go ahead, 
major.” 

As Trent approached, Hsien Sgam lifted his hand. 

“Am I to be forced to submit to the indignity of 
being searched?” 

Neither Englishman answered, but Trent paused 
tentatively. 

- “If I give my word,” Hsien Sgam pursued, “that 
I am unarmed, will not that be sufficient?” 


380 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


“No weapon of any sort?” — thus Kerth, while his 
eyes sought Trent. The latter inclined his head 
slightly. 

“None.” 

Something of the Mongol’s poise and dignity had re- 
asserted itself, and a faint, illusive smile — an almost 
tolerant smile — touched his woman ’s-mouth. His 
slender hands worked nervously. 

“I daresay I can guess' your thoughts.” Kerth, 
who was smiling, addressed Hsien Sgam. “Your 
Transparency thinks I dare not use this,” — fingering 
the steel trigger-guard — “but in that you are mistaken. 
You must remember that whereas you are Governor, I 
am — well — ” He touched the yellow vestments. 

As Trent watched Hsien Sgam, an emotion almost of 
pity smote him. He felt the titanic conflict within 
the Mongol, the power — warped power — behind ,the 
Buddha-like face and the heretofore puzzling eyes (eyes 
that were no longer puzzling, but that mirrored the 
raw look of ancient evil, the bitter corrosion of dis- 
appointment) ; power that was facing defeat. Dream 
of empire, of pomp and regal splendor, rusted, as his 

every dream had done An unfinished vessel, 

this Hsien Sgam. (Fragments of the Mongol’s story 
played like illuminating shafts among Trent’s thoughts: 
the boy who wept for his father — who felt the strangle- 
grip of a great gray Babylon — the celibate to whom 
the wine of love turned stale.) The gift of life to 
Hsien Sgam had been ashes. All this Trent saw in 
his eyes — eyes that stared ahead with sick contemplation. 


FALCON’S NEST 


381 


And now Hsien Sgam moved. He clasped his lithe, 
feminine hands; he took a few steps, slueing upon his 
twisted limb ; paused ; stood motionless ; made a gesture 
of resignation. 

“I am defeated,” he declared in his soft voice, “but 
you will sink with me. It is as though you had ven- 
tured into a web; the threads will tangle you, and, 
like flies, you will hang there and die.” 

Kerth smiled. “Your teeth are extracted, Transpar- 
ency,” he replied. He removed another revolver from 
under his pallium, offering it to Trent. “Major, I 
think we can talk with more ease if we go to my” — this 
with a smile — “my apartments. There are certain 
matters I wish to discuss with his Transparency, and I 
fear we might be interrupted here.” 

He moved around the dais, pausing by the yellow 
brocade that hung behind the throne. 

“Suppose I walk first, then his Transparency, then 
you, major. I believe that will prevent any complica- 
tions. ’ ’ 

In the rear of the dais, concealed by yellow draper- 
ies, was a door that gave access to a stairway. Kerth 
took the lead, his robes dragging upon the stone steps. 
The stairs mounted at a steep grade, broke their ascent 
on three landings, and brought them into a small space, 
facing coral-hued curtains. As Kerth gripped the 
center of the hangings, preparatory to parting them, he 
looked around, over his shoulder and Hsien Sgam’s 
close-cropped head, at Trent. 

“Be prepared, major,” he drawled. “This is ‘ That - 


382 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


sang’ or, as we would say it, ‘Falcon’s Nest.’ ” He 
laughed — a low, rather grim chuckle. “You stand 
face to face with the secret of Lhakang-gompa. ’ ’ 

With that he jerked the draperies apart and the 
clink of the metal rings from which they hung sent a 
slight shiver down Trent’s spine. He stepped between 
the curtains, Hsien Sgam preceding him. He found him- 
self in a long room. Its floor and walls were bare. At 
the far end, in an alcove-like space, raised and sectioned 
off from the rest of the apartment by a half -partition, 
was a bed. Yak-hair curtains partly hid it — only 
partly, for they did not conceal the limbs and the crim- 
son garment of the body that lay upon the gold-fringed 
bed-robe. 

Kerth had crossed the room. Now Trent halted at 
the break of the partition, Hsien Sgam at his side. 

The face of the sleeper (Trent knew by the fall and 
rise of his breast that he was not dead) was Aryan, 
but the shape of the eyelids and brows suggested that 
the eyes, when open, were oblique. Lips thin and sen- 
sitive; features of an ascetic. The skull was high and 
shaven as bare as if hair had never grown upon it; a 
white bandage covered the right temple and sloped over 

the dome Trent lifted his eyes from the pale, 

yellow features to Kerth, who, with a slight smile, 
answered the inquisitive look. 

“Sakya-muni is the Falcon.” 

Trent looked down upon the wasted features; looked 
up again. 

“He ’s been unconscious since noon to-day,” Kerth 


FALCON’S NEST 


383 


explained. “This morning I attended a ceremony in 
the audience-hall. While I was saying a mantra, the 
idea occurred to me I crept into one of the cor- 

ridors off the hall and hid there. When the lamas had 
gone, Sakya-muni went behind the curtains in the 
rear of the throne, with two attendants. Soon the at- 
tendants reappeared and I went up. Unfor- 

tunately, in the tussle he struck his head. I ’m afraid 
he ’s done up rather badly. Take a look, major. Mean- 
while, Transparency” — his eyes fastened upon the Mon- 
gol — “be seated — here.” 

He indicated an armchair and Hsien Sgam sat down. 
Trent bent over Sakya-muni After several min- 

utes he straightened up. 

“ It ’s a bad cut, but I can ’t tell much without a closer 
examination. He has fever — pulse running up, too.” 

Hsien Sgam rose. “Is it quite serious, Major Trent? 
Do you think — ” 

“You will resume your seat, Transparency,” ordered 
Kerth. The Mongol obeyed. “Now, major, tell me 
just what has happened to-day — and if you ’ve learned 
anything about Miss Charteris.” 

Trent briefly summarized the situation. Kerth nod- 
ded absently when he had finished ; fingered his revolver. 

“We ’re a bit scattered,” he commented. Then, after 
a pause: “Transparency, you will be good enough to say 
where you ’ve hidden Miss Charteris.” 

Hsien Sgam sat like a carved Buddha ; even his fingers 
ceased their restless playing upon the arms of the chair. 

“If I refuse?” 


384 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Kerth thrust forward the blue muzzle of the revolver. 
‘ ‘ There ’s to be no parleying, ’ ’ he declared sternly, the 
smile gone from his face. “You ’ve lost. Now come 
through. ’ ’ 

After a moment Hsien Sgam said: 

* 1 She is at my residence. ’ ’ 

“Good” — this from Kerth. “Before we leave you 
will write an order to have her taken to whatever place 
we specify.” Then, as though dismissing that point as 
settled, he went on : “Hmm .... Quite scattered, I ’d 
say: She at his house; we here; Trent’s men with Na- 
chung; Sarojini Nanjee getting ready to leave; his 
Transparency’s soldiers hidden at the ruined gate,” — 
a pause — “with orders to shoot Sarojini Nanjee. . . . 
Hmm . . . . ” Suddenly he smiled. i ‘ Excellent ! . . . . 
What ’s the hour, major?” 

Trent pulled back his long sleeve. “Five to ten.” 

Kerth spoke to Hsien Sgam. “You will also send a 
guard to your men at the ruins, withdrawing them — but, 

no — no — won’t do. Ends must meet We can’t 

trust a messenger. And we must let Sarojini Nanjee 
leave the city, as she ’s planned ; for she has the jewels — 
yet — damn!” His forehead crinkled into a frown. 
“Damn!” he repeated. “Ends must meet!” 

Silence followed. Hsien Sgam did not stir. Once a 
faint sound, a shuddering sigh, came from the alcove- 
like space. Kerth was the first to speak, and his smile 
hinted that he had discovered a solution. 

“You may not wholly approve, major,” he began, 
“yet I see no other way. Why not go ahead and meet 


FALCON’S NEST 


385 


Sarojini Nanjee? Meanwhile, I ’ll have Miss Charteris 
freed, and she, in company with myself and his Trans- 
parency, can leave the city by the main gate and 
Amber Bridge. We ’ll reach the ruined gateway be- 
fore you and Sarojini pass the Great Magician’s Gate, 
which will give his Transparency time to forestall the 
soldiers and send them back to the city. Then we can 
wait, there at the gateway, for you. Sarojini may not 
be particularly pleased when she learns of my presence ; 
but if she acts up, we have his Transparency to testify 
that she intended to do away with an officer of the em- 
pire. That ought to simplify her case.” 

‘ ‘ What of my muleteers ? ’ ’ Trent queried. 4 ‘And Na- 
chung ? ’ ’ 

“Na-chung is n’t to be considerel. As for your men — 
I can get word to them to meet us at the main gate. If 
there ’s trouble we can make good use of them. Of 
course, there ’s a risk — more for you than for me. Some- 
thing might prevent us from reaching the soldiers in 
time, and — ” 

Hsien Sgam interrupted. 

“You forget his Holiness. Will you leave him to 
die?” 

“Hardly,” Kerth answered. “After all that ’s hap- 
pened, I fancy the Viceroy will be pleased to — to en- 
tertain his Holiness No, we sha’n’t leave him to 

die. If all goes well, Major Trent and I can arrange to 
return to Lhakang-gompa.” 

“You think,” said Hsien Sgam, “it will be easy to 
leave the city?” 


386 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


Kerth made a deprecatory gesture. 4 ‘That is not 
difficult. I shall ride in the sedan-chair of His Holi- 
ness Sakya-muni, and until we pass Amber Bridge 
your Transparency will sit beside me to prevent any 
interference with our plans. There you may change to 
a pony and ride between two of the major’s muleteers. 
Your own palanquin will be put to good use, as Miss 
Charteris can occupy that. And after we leave Shing- 
tse-lunpo, then to the South — Gyangtse — and into 
India.” 

Hsien Sgam smiled — that smile of inscrutable irony. 

‘‘You are only crawling deeper into the web,” he as- 
serted quietly. “It will fall upon you and you will 
go — like that — ” The lithe hands spread out expres- 
sively. 

Kerth coolly returned his smile. “If we ’re caught, 
you ’ll perish with us, in the same web. Threats are 
useless, Transparency. The scales have tilted. And 
your attitude doesn’t become a prisoner. We can 
carry out our plans with you or without you, although 
much smoother with you. Accept my ultimatum — un- 
conditional surrender — or reject it.” 

Hsien Sgam’s lips twisted into that ineffaceable smile. 
His quiescence was absolute. 

“You understand, if I thought my — my demise would 
prevent you from executing your plans, I would not 
hesitate to — er — clog the machinery. But it would 
be suicide without u purpose. Therefore, I can only 
accept.” 

‘ ‘ Unconditionally ? ’ ’ 


FALCON’S NEST 


387 


‘ 1 Unconditionally. ’ ’ 

Hsien Sgam’s chin sank into his breast. 

“Now, major, do you approve of my plan?” asked 
Kerth. “If so, we ’ll go to the audience hall and I ’ll 
order the men to take you to your residence, and his 
Transparency and I will despatch messengers for Miss 
Charteris and your muleteers.” 

Trent nodded. 

Kerth placed the mitre upon his head and let the veil 
fall over his features. A blue steel eye glittered in the 
folds of his robes — an eye that was focussed upon Hsien 
Sgam. 

‘ ‘ Come, Transparency ! ’ ’ 

Kerth leading, they left Falcon’s Nest; left it with its 
silence and its brooding secrets. 

5 

A few minutes later Kerth was seated on the throne 
of Sakya-muni (Trent and Hsien Sgam stood on the red 
carpets before the dais) and reaching toward a gong 
that hung from one of the carved lions of the chair. 
Following the mellow ring, the curtains in the other 
end of the chamber parted to admit the Donyer-chenpo, 
who bowed and stood waiting. 

The thin voice sounded from under the yellow veil — a 
stream of Tibetan words. Trent wondered, irrelevantly, 
if it was really Kerth who spoke — Kerth of the satanic 
smile. 

And now he saw the yellow-robed figure motioning 
him to leave, and backed slowly to where the Donyer- 


388 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


chenpo stood ; backed between the parted draperies ; and 
the curtains dropped, and he was in darkness. 

In the first ante-chamber the Donyer-chenpo resumed 
his seat at the nacre-inlaid desk, among the other cardi- 
nals, and Trent continued with the soldiers. Back 
through the courts and corridors they went (each 
glimpse of the stars brought to Trent a sweet recollec- 
tion of another lustrous pallor), and down the innumer- 
able staircases. They emerged at length into the court- 
yard where the horses were waiting ; mounted ; rode out 
of Lhakang-gompa and down the causeway. 

Afterward, Trent could remember no single incident 
of that brief ride from the lamasery ; it was a panorama 
of moon and white walls and darkness. The bewilder- 
ing events of the past few hours had left him in a state 
of mental confusion. The soldiers wheeled about at his 
gate, and he rode into the deserted quadrangle alone. 

He was about to dismount when a shadow detached it- 
self from the gloom of the garden — the garden, with 
its flaming hollyhocks. (Odd that he should think of 
flowers now!) It was the long-haired guide of the pre- 
vious night. He grunted what Trent supposed was a 
greeting, and caught the bridle, guiding the pony back 
to the gate. Trent turned for a last look at the dark 
dwelling — the house where he first partook of the lover’s 
eucharist. Then the Tibetan swung himself upon the 
pony, behind him, clamping his knees upon the beast’s 
flanks, and Trent inhaled the reek of soiled clothing. 

Through familiar streets they clattered, and over a 
stone bridge toward the city’s ramparts. Few people 


FALCON’S NEST 


38tr 

were astir; dogs prowled in the lurking shadows. The 
temple of the Great Magician had a ghostly semblance as 
they approached it; its dome was spattered with moon- 
light, like a huge anthill flecked with drippings of glow- 
paint. Something in the sight of the bulk of masonry 
brought to Trent’s mind what Sarojini Nanjee had 
said 

They passed the temple. A narrow foot-path took 
them to the Great Magician’s Gate. As on the preced- 
ing night, there was no guard. When Trent’s pony was 
brought to a halt, the Tibetan made a gesture which 
Trent interpreted to mean that he should stay there 
and slunk away along the path to the temple. Trent 
glanced at his watch as the man left. 

To the north, in the maze of houses that lay flat and 
huddled beneath the sovereign structure of Lhakang- 
gompa, a dog was howling. Another answered it; an- 
other took it up; and the melancholy baying wavered 
from roof to roof — a tuneless dirge. Irrelevantly, Trent 
thought of a vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair that by this 
time should be at the ruined gateway. It was a sheer, 
breathless moment, a moment detached and charged 
with exquisite suspense. 

The rattle of harness-chains drew him back to earth. 
His eyes swerved to the path from the temple. After a 
moment, shadows took shape in the moonlight — mounts 
and riders. He wheeled his pony and rode to meet the 
caravan. 

Sarojini Nanjee sat erect upon a horse at the head of 
a string of mules ; the scent of sandalwood awakened in 


390 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


him a queer alertness. She always breathed of earth- 
perfume — an odor of the senses. Beyond her were the 
looming shapes of three men — muleteers. Trent saw 
the contours of sacks on the pack-animals. 

“Your men have left the city?” was her first question. 
Her breath came quickly and the black opals had been 
kindled in her eyes. 

He answered with a nod. 

She insinuated her hand into his ; pressed his fingers. 

“We win!” she whispered. “You and I!” 

He smiled to himself, grimly. What Hsien Sgam had 
said was fresh in his ears. One of her men passed and 
opened the gate. Outside, on the embankment, she 
turned her mount, waiting at one side while the caravan 
moved out. Trent reined in his pony beside her. 

“Look!” she commanded, pointing through the gate 
at the magnificent mass of Lhakang-gompa, above whose 
broken roofs the moon was poised. “ Shingtse-lunpo — 
Lhakang-gompa — all! I hold them, like this!” And 
she made a gesture and laughed — that old familiar 
laugh that rippled low in her throat. “All is not fin- 
ished ! Nay ! I promised you vengeance — and to-night, 
in a few minutes, you shall know that I keep my prom- 
ises ! 9 9 

Then she struck her horse in the flanks and dashed 
down the slope, to the head of the caravan. Trent 
followed. Behind, the gate closed softly and hoofs 
thudded in the mud of the road. 

“To-night .... you shall know that I keep my 
■promises!” 


FALCON’S NEST 391 

That rang in Trent’s brain; rang and echoed and 
reeled away, and left him to grope for the meaning. 

They rode on. Several times Sarojini Nanjee glanced 
over her shoulder. The ruins above the tunnel were 
reached, passed. Ahead the road swerved and lost it- 
self in high rushes — rushes that swayed and sighed and 
shivered. Trent’s hand hovered close to his revolver. 
The flesh over his spine crawled uncomfortably as they 
approached the end of the marsh-belt. He strained his 
eyes, but saw only the fringed line of tall reeds against 
the sky. . . . And now the white columns of the ruined 
gateway loomed, broken sentinels guarding the half- 
buried remains of an ancient fortification. 

They were within a few yards of the gateway when, 
ahead, a horse whinnied. 

Trent’s heart leaped into his throat, and Sarojini 
Nanjee swiftly reined in her horse. Something gleamed 
in her hand. 

From behind the shattered walls appeared a horseman 
— a robed horseman, phantom-like in the moonlight. Be- 
hind him rode another — another. They were fairly 
vomited through the gateway. Trent recognized Kerth 
at the head, Kee Meng and Hsaio behind. 

The thing in Sarojini ’s hand ^coughed, and the red 
glare of discharged powder momentarily stained the 
darkness. But none of the three horsemen faltered. 
Before she could fire again Trent gripped her mount’s 
bridle and dug his heels into his own pony. They 
plunged forward, side by side. He was almost dragged 
from the saddle, but he managed to remain seated— to 


392 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


cling to the bridle of Sarojini ’s horse. When they were 
outside the broken gate he jerked both animals to a 
standstill. Melted fire-opals blazed in the woman’s 
eyes. But he had her revolver. 

“You fool!” 

Vitriol was in her voice — but he heard her only in* a 
detached way, for he saw, swimming in .the moonlight 
behind the wall, a sedan-chair, and in it the pale oval 
of a face. It was in the midst of mules and packs and 
several mounted men. Hsien Sgam was there, in the 
saddle, between two muleteers. Kerth, Kee Meng and 
Hsiao had drawn rein in the gateway, thus separating 
Sarojini Nanjee from her caravan. 

This, a quick negative, snapped and printed upon 
Trent’s brain. 

From him the woman’s eyes moved around the group 
— past Kerth, past the muleteers and the sedan-chair — to 
Hsien Sgam. 

“You did this!” Her words stung with venom, and 
her eyes traveled back swiftly to Trent. “Perhaps he 
fooled you into betraying me — but ash him why he 
wanted you to believe CJifLvigny alwe and see , then, if 
you want him as your ally!” 

A moment of tenseness followed — a moment that 
seemed to lengthen into a dead interval of time. The 
very world ached with dumbness, ached and waited. 
Hsien Sgafii, who sat stooped upon his pony, was the 
first to speak. 

“Major Trent, you wish to know who murdered your 
friend. Sarojini Nanjee did it. But not with her own 


FALCON’S NEST 


393 


hand. ...” His words were like smooth pellets emer- 
ging from vats of molten metal. “I loved her,” the 
Mongol declared; “loved her .... and I went to 
Gaya, to yonr house, when I learned of her interest in 
you .... And there I made a fatal mistake — ” 

His words were buried as a muffled detonation rup- 
tured the quiet. An abrupt shock quivered the ground. 
Eyes swerved to the source of sound. For an infinites- 
imal moment the very universe seemed to hang in dread- 
ful suspense ; then came two violent throbs, like the blows 
of a seismic hammer. A terrific roar was born out of 
the w T omb of inter-stellar silence — a roar that smote the 
eardrums of those who heard, that pressed ponderously 
against the heart and whipped the blood into throat 
and nostrils and eyes. 

From the towering mass of Lhakang-gompa rose a 
quick glare that stabbed up, sank, and with it the roofs 
and walls of the monastery. . . . Smoke belched upon 
the sky. The earth shook. The very stars seemed dim 
with dread, and a wraith of nebulous black veiled the 
face of the moon. It was as though the gigantic ma- 
chinery of a planet had been suddenly crippled. 

The hush that followed seemed to pluck from Trent’s 
lungs the power to breathe. He thought the ground 
still heaved, that the rumbling was still pouring about 

his ears He was a pigmy in the midst of some 

cosmic disorder His pony snorted and trembled 

violently. For a space of seconds no one spoke ; no one 
dared. All looked toward the cloud that was set- 
tling, doom-black, over what had been Lhakang-gompa, 


394 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


over the seamed and broken heart of Shingtse-lunpo ! 
. . . . And then came a soft, repressed voice — a herald 
of earth recalling them to its dominion after some awful 
furlough. 

“Sarojini Nanjee is very clever. I should have 
known better than to oppose a woman.” 

A rattling laugh broke from Hsien Sgam, a laugh that 
was punctuated by a crash. Trent, turning, saw a ra- 
pier of corrosive flame leap from the Mongol ’s hand; 
saw it reflect hideously upon the features of Sarojini 
Nanjee. He sought to catch her, but she slipped from 

the saddle Her face stared up at him from a pool 

of black hair. 

Again the rattling laugh — as the muleteers lunged at 
Hsien Sgam ; again the crash and the rapier of corrosive 
flame, a broken rapier, that sank its hot shaft into the 

Mongol's own breast He hung limp between the 

muleteers, and a shining thing dropped from his hand 
to the ground. But his eyes were open. Trent saw 
them; Kerth, who had dismounted, saw them. 

1 ‘I regret that I killed your friend, Major Trent” — 
the Mongol spoke in a stricken voice — “I regret, too, 
that I was forced to close the lips of a native who ap- 
peared at an inopportune time. It is unpardonable, 
major, that I stabbed this Captain Manlove — instead — 
of you.” 

Then he swayed; fell forward upon the neck of his 
mount. He was still alive when Trent reached him, but 
the Buddha-like face seemed shrunken and the oblique 
eyes, revealed by the searching brilliance of the moon- 


FALCON’S NEST 395 

light, were half closed with pain. He smiled in a 
twisted, grotesque manner. 

“Mysteries are exquisite things, major,” he whis- 
pered. “Consider how delightful it — it will be, in years 
to come, to — to wonder whether Chavigny .... ah, 
Shinje! .... whether he was killed in Delhi, as Saro- 
jini claims, or died in — in Lhakang-gompa ; and to 
wonder if she really meant to — to murder you, or if I — 
I lied — ” He laughed softly. “You have heard of the 
scorpion, major, who, surrounded, stings himself to 
death ” 

They had to lift him from the pony, and Trent, look- 
ing down upon the huddled body, knew it did not be- 
long to the boy who went forth from Mongolia with 
the dream of a messiah shining in his heart. 


CHAPTER XIV 


GYANGTSE 

L ATE afternoon of the seventeenth day, and ahead, 
against the brazen furnace of the sunset, the 
battlements of Gyangtse. Trent straightened up in his 
saddle as he saw the town rise above the ochre hills. 
Gyangtse! From there the Chumbi Valley, the passes 
of Sikkhim, and down into tropical India ! But Gyang- 
tse meant more than that to him Like the frail 

filament of a dream was the memory of the journey 
from Shingtse-lunpo — dust and bitter winds; smoke of 
campfires in the nostrils; and in his heart a cavernous 
doubt. It was this doubt that fed upon his nerve- 
tissues, not the travel. And Gyangtse meant that it 
would end. He would be lifted to lofty spheres, 
or. . . . 

Now, as the town unfolded in the sunset, he looked at 
Dana Charteris, who rode near him — rode in silence, 
staring ahead. (Thus she had ridden for those seven- 
teen days — in silence and staring ahead, a wintry cool- 
ness freezing the warmth from her eyes.) Tears trem- 
bled upon her lashes. 

The road took them under a bastion and toward the 
gate. When they were yet some distance away a uni- 
formed figure, mounted and followed by turbaned Gurk- 
has, clattered out to meet them. 

396 


35 1 


GYANGTSE 


397 


4 ‘Cavendish! The District Agent!” 

Kerth, who was riding ahead with the muleteers and 
the grain-sacks, called back these words to Trent and the 
girl. 

The uniformed figure had drawn up — a tanned young 
man, with the mark of a helmet-strap running across 
each cheek and a lonely hungering in his eyes. He was 
laughing and shaking hands with Trent ; then he touched 
his helmet as he saw Dana Charteris. 

They were guided into a compound where marigolds 
kindled a warmth against white walls. Servants with 
weathered, smiling faces appeared from the house, stick- 
ing out their tongues in greeting. 

But Trent found a poignant sharpness in this welcome, 
for the winter-light in the eyes of Dana Charteris had 
chilled him to the soul. 


2 

A bath in a collapsible canvas tub; clean clothing; 
dinner in a high-ceilinged, cool room; and, afterward, 
Trent, Kerth and the young Agent -talking, over cigars. 

Dana Charteris had slipped away soon after the meal, 
and the room seemed barren to Trent. He scarcely 
heard his two companions, and sat nervously fingering 
the arm of the chair and blowing smoke into the air. 
When he could no longer endure it he begged to be 
excused and went to the room assigned to him, where he 
got from his pack a certain object and thrust it into his 
pocket. 

In the compound he encountered a Gurkha. . . .Yes, 


398 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


lie had seen the memsahib, the soldier replied ; he heard 
her order one of the sahib’s muleteers to saddle her 
pony and she went toward Pal-khor Choide. 

Trent followed. 

He had passed the crimson walls of the lamasery be- 
fore he saw her — a slender shadow ahead in the dusk. 
He urged his pony into a canter, and presently slackened 
pace beside her. She had not turned, but now the brown 
eyes were directed upon him and he felt a polar coldness 
in the look. For a moment his voice refused to answer 
his summons. 

“Dana — ” he faltered. “Why did you run away, 
like this?” 

She smiled — not the smile he knew, that awakened a 
golden memory of autumn forests and cathedral spaces. 

“I wanted to be alone. Why did you follow?” 

From his pocket he drew a glinting bracelet. In the 
dusk she saw the cobra-head lifted in bizarre relief. It 
seemed to strike into her heart. 

“To give you this;” — his voice was low, trembling — 
“to tell you that I cannot be your — your bracelet- 
brother longer.” He seemed to drink courage from 
those first words and plunged ahead. “Back there in 
Burma, at the jungle camp, I promised myself that until 
we reached civilization I ’d remain the — the brother; 
and now. ...” He extended the bracelet. “Won’t 
you accept it?” 

The winter-light faded suddenly from her eyes; they 
shone with a new illumination. With its coming, the 


GYANGTSE 


399 


chill in his heart thawed ; the early night was aromatic 
and healing. (Overhead a few stars were canght in 
the gauzy dusk, like dewdrops in a web.) Her fingers 
closed about the bracelet. 

“I ’ve been so foolish ! ’ ’ she whispered, in a choked 
voice. “Oh, so childish and small — while you Ve been 
big and fine and strong. Arnold Trent, forgive me ! I 
thought because — because you did n’t speak ; because you 
didn’t tell me of what I saw in your eyes — back there 
in Burma — that, like Sentimental Tommy , the glamour 
tarnished when you touch it — that you were just — 
play-acting — and, because the adventure was over, you — 
you . . . .” She swallowed, then finished: “Oh, I ’ve 
been such a foolish Grizel /” 

.... When they rode back into Gyangtse the distant, 
purple-black spurs of the Himalayas were swimming in 
the pallid luster poured from a flagon moon. 

3 

Serpents of tobacco smoke writhed in the room where 
Euan Kerth and the young District Agent had been 
talking since dinner; spiraled about the two tanned 
faces and dissolved, as if by magic, leaving a thin gray- 
ish haze. 

.... “If anyone else had told me that, Euan Kerth,” 
said the young officer, breaking a long silence, “I 
would n ’t believe it ! . . . . And they ’re in those sacks ! 
No wonder you wanted a dozen Gurkhas to guard ’em ! 
Gad! Of course I ’ll lend you an escort! Why, if it 


400 


CARAVANS BY NIGHT 


were learned that we had ’em, here in this house, we ’d 
lie murdered before midnight! But go on, man, finish 
your story.” 

Kerth resumed. The golden roofs of Lhakang-gompa 
lived in his words; Shingtse-lunpo, with its maze of 
white-washed houses. Another long silence followed 
when he finished. The serpents of smoke still crawled 
and lolled in the air. Cavendish spoke. 

“ Kerth, I wonder — ” He broke off; the lonely 
hungering in his eyes was clouded by an expression of 
bewilderment. He cleared his throat; laughed. “Of 
course, it can’t be so, but .... Well, about six months 
ago an old lama was sick in the Jong. They brought 
him to me, on a litter, just before he died — at his re- 
quest. He told me something queer. He said that 
Lhassa was no longer the political center of Tibet, and 
that the man in the Pot ala was not the Dalai Lama, 
but a priest posing as the Dalai Lama. He said the 
real Dalai Lama was in another monastery — somewhere 
toward Mongolia — that there . . . .” Again he broke 
off; laughed. “But of course there can’t be anything 
to it.” 

And Euan Kerth, his face dimmed by the smoke from 
his cheroot, smiled his satanic smile. 

“No, of course,” he repeated, “there can’t be any- 
thing to it.” 














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